The 13 Games: Textiles
by jakey121
Summary: The second part to The 13 Games series. This time telling the story of District Eight and their Games. Co-written with Chaos In Her Wake, Cashmere67 and ImmyRose!
1. Prologue Part One

**The 13 Games: Textiles.**

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**Prologue Part One;  
Jasper Apatite, District One Victor.**

* * *

It still feels wrong.

Every time I open my eyes and try to accept it, I'm caught between reality and a dream. Red and white blur behind my eyes, the colours of death and purity wash through me like the blood beneath my skin. It ended two days ago, yet I'm still there. The rocks wet with snow, the caverns pitch black, the dome rising to the sky where it all began. And where he died.

I see him more than anything. Pale white skin, hazel hair, and those strong but delicate hands. There was a time before I met him that all I knew was pain. All I could see was a life destined for darkness, hope sprinting away in the aftermath of every bruise and broken bone.

The Hunger Games became the last option, the hope me and my Aunt had been searching for. I dream about volunteering, Beryl's face livid and burning with anger, and then Julius. A jeweler's boy pulled me out of the shell I'd encased myself in. The wall I held off Tyrian Aquila with, the barrier that protected me from the others out to take my life and claim their survival. It all shed because of one misunderstood young man, reaped and ridiculed for being the bully he never was.

I see his face glowing every time he stood by my side. I feel my own heart thumping against my ribcage whenever I dream about that kiss amongst the rocks and snow. He saved me from disaster. And then he died.

"Jasper, darling, Jasper it's time to wake up."

His touch fades away with the blood, the dead, the fear. My eyes gently open, slivers of light invade my sight immediately but I hold them open and see Coraline's pasty face hovering above me. My stylist lends me a hand which I refuse, propping my elbows backwards, I hoist myself up from the bed and lean against the headboard.

"Today's an exciting day Jasper, we better get you ship-shape and ready," she trills. The pitch catches on my eardrums and I wince, grinding my teeth together and sliding ever so slowly backwards to distance myself from her. She shakes her head and purses her lips together, pulling out a list clipped to a board.

"For whatever reason, your escort could not be here with you. Business with the next Games I presume. Instead I will be attending to your needs, and it is my duty young lady," she pauses and takes a firm step forwards, placing a hand on my shoulder, "to get you out of bed and ready for the main event."

"Which is?" my chest feels hollow and my voice does nothing but warble and crack. Coraline either pretends not to notice or doesn't at all. She sighs and runs a pen down the sheet of paper, ticking in black something I can't get a good look at.

Do I even want to look at it? Three days in, three days since hell, and the Capitol has claimed me back and acted like I didn't kill... that I didn't lose Julius Mako.

"The choosing of the next District, which Games are next. You have been chosen to reap a number!"

N-no. Coraline steps back to prep something for me, hovering by my bedside unaware of my eyes tightening and my hands rising to my chest.

The dome. The caves. The river. The trees. Everything climbs out from the broken cage, pouring out of every crevice. Me. I have to condemn a District to insanity.

It doesn't matter that we all have to do it eventually; the children reaped in a few days will be my own doing... my fault. Why not _him? _Why does it have to be me?

"S-Sterling."

Coraline perks up at the sound of my voice, barely above a whisper. There are tears falling down my cheeks as the Arena continues to pervade my entire body. Julius flashes once, then Iridium. Coraline's face breaks through each pulsating array of colours, then wipes clean. I see her lips moving and try to connect myself to the words. I can't do this, I can't kill twenty-two children.

"-the President chose you my dear."

The President, the man responsible for this Quell. "I don't care. I don't give a damn what he wants! Pick Sterling, I don't want to do it. I can't..."

All the pictures give way to the pounding inside my skull. Coraline blanches at me with rose coloured cheeks and scarlet eyes. My back has risen from the bed and the sensation of pain tingles from my palm. I unclench my fingers and stare up at her: angry, sad, violated, broken.

I volunteered to save myself from Beryl, from a monster. And I won, I can do that. The road to victory wasn't what I thought it would be though, what any of us from One or Two or even Four consider to be something we desire. I want to go home. I don't want Coraline, the President, Sterling or anyone. I don't want to be hurt anymore.

"Jasper." Again, the touch of her hand on my shoulder, the perfume wafting from her shimmering gown. I stare up at her wide-eyed and shrink back. "Jasper, stop it."

"I can't."

"Sterling hates you as much as you hate him. I don't know why you have to do this and not him, it's not fair on you but it wouldn't be fair on him if the blame of whoever comes next shifted onto his hands. It would have happened eventually Jasper."

"But the kids that die will be my fault. Whoever comes next, that's down to the kid that wins the next Games. And I don't hate Sterling... I don't feel anything about him."

She rubs my shoulder kindly but it does nothing to comfort me. I doubt anything can anymore, the only one that had a chance left me when an arrow pierced his neck.

"We should get you ready. Show-time is in an hour."

* * *

I can't get his eyes off of me. I move and they're watching me. I stand frozen and they cut through me. He does hate me. I can't blame him.

"Ladies and gentleman, welcome to the first ever District Reaping!" The President stands on his podium, bemused yet sophisticated as the Capitol bombards the City Circle with cheers and cries. I shiver under his watch and turn to glare at the glass bowl, glittering under the camera light. Eleven slips settle within, one for each District.

My fingers twitch and I notice the somersaulting going on inside my stomach. If I'm sick, maybe they'll force Sterling to do it in my place and he can condemn children to the death.

More words are shouted into the microphone and more cameras snap away at the three of us on stage. I know it's wrong for me to wish that upon Sterling. I killed, we both did. Condemning one District to the death can't be any more difficult than cutting down teenagers my age and younger.

It is though, I can't explain it. I just know this moment won't ever leave me, tonight my nightmares will fill with the empty faces of twenty-four I'll soon come to guilt myself over.

"Without further ado, please welcome the one, the only, Jasper Apatite!"

I snap my attention upwards to the sound of my name. The President's expression is soft when I catch his eyes, but it's all false. I slowly, and with the correct posture, waltz over to the reaping bowl with the best pretend smile I can muster. Sterling's eyes bore into the back of my skull but I manage to hold back a shiver, wave at the cameras, and dive my hand into the slips within.

Maybe I'll pick Two or Four. That way, there will be some volunteers, it'll be their fault they fight and kill themselves off one by one. Maybe... maybe...

I pick the slip. The children I have damned.

"You dear, announce it proudly." The President waves his hand at me when I offer him the slip. He's going through this the whole way, carrying it through so I'll never forget no matter what I try to do.

A million eyes from both here and in their homes somewhere far away focus in on me as my fingers unfurl the single slip of paper.

I close my eyes tight for a moment, composing myself, holding everything in. Then I look down and the District leaves my lips before it gets a chance to register.

I hear applause, the roar of the bloodthirsty. Then I see Sterling and Coraline, both of them watching me stumble back to my place.

And finally I see District Eight and I know what I've done will always be my fault. Their lives will be on my shoulders for eternity, a list of the dead that will haunt my nightmares.

* * *

**It's been over a year since the first part to this series reached its conclusion and honestly I never thought I would return to it. But after thinking it through, I realised it was something I really wanted to continue with, and now with the help of three other authors, The 13 Games is back!**

**In case you aren't familiar with who Jasper and Sterling are, or what this series is even about, I'll give you a quick summary here rather than telling you to go read The 13 Games: Luxury, which honestly isn't my best work xD The Quell for the 100th Games is, that for every month of the year, there will be a Games with twenty-four tributes reaped or who volunteer from each District. Two victors will leave and after the final District has had its Games, all Victors go into the final Games and compete until the ultimate Victor leaves.**

**Jasper and Sterling won the District One Games, and now the next will be the District Eight Games.**

**I'm aware we all have our own stories to write, but with combined help the task of handling this story won't get in the way of our responsibilities with what we are writing ourselves. **

**If you're interested in submitting a tribute, guidelines and form are on my profile. I'll say it here as well as what will be on there, but tributes must be sent via PM. Next chapter will be up in two weeks alongside a blog link with the chosen tributes, it is open submissions so there are no reservations, just submit and all will be revealed in the next chapter. **

**Anyway, thanks to _Chaos In Her Wake, Cashmere67 _and _ImmyRose _for helping me with this story, and hopefully if it all goes well, future stories for this series. Submissions are open now, submit away ;D**


	2. Prologue Part Two

**Prologue Part Two;  
Sterling "Mammoth" Milano, District One Victor.**

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A soft curl of blonde hair falls between her delicate eyes. I smile, tracing my fingers through the silky touch and let it fall down against her skin.

She vanishes, her thin pale lips fading last into the darkness. The Mayor's daughter, an incentive for volunteering I kept quiet, a reason lost now. All my reasons lost. Even the gang; there just doesn't seem to be that connection anymore. No more Mammoth, tough guy, brutish doer who gets the bad jobs done.

I'm just Sterling, Victor of the Hunger Games. Loser. Failure. The protector who protected no one.

Iridium, Coralie. Everyday for this past week, I've tried to tell myself that it isn't my fault. The cycle of life brought about their end, a cycle rooted into our core because of the Capitol's corruption. Just a simple part of life we have to get used to now.

And each time, I feel a steel knife touching my chest, cutting away that bliss and plunging me into guilt. Only, I haven't been sure for a while whether it's guilt because... because I failed them, or I failed myself? The former, it has to be the former. Otherwise I'm selfish and they never deserved me anyway.

"Jasper will be boarding the train alongside you." Gryphon's voice breezes through. I look up from my plate and groggily sway upwards. A knife clatters to the floor but the jangle is distant.

My eyes burn, my throat feels scratchy and parched. I'm so tired. I've been tired since before I volunteered for the Quarter Quell.

"Did you hear me?"

I grunt. Yes, no? Maybe? Each day is a long fight through waking up and then going to sleep at night. It's not the Capitol, the constant barrage of cameras pressing to get to me, interviewers wanting five minutes, they're all fine. Not fine, but bearable. It's me, my own head that I can't handle.

I haven't had a single nightmare, but that's not the problem. Since winning, since losing Iridium, I just don't know who I am, or even who I was.

Will I ever even work it out?

"Jasper will be boarding the train with you. You two, together." He sighs and brushes past the table, turning the corner to sit in the chair by my side. I sense his fingers close to my arm and I lean backwards, glaring at them. "We don't want anything happening."

Jasper. A spike of confusion, maybe anger, rakes down my spine. I hold a flinch, keeping my eyes rooted on his hand, those fingers that want to comfort me but hold back. The countless times I forsook my duties in that Arena so I could be the hero, only to let everything crumble down.

Jasper. She thinks I hate her. Each look I sent her way when she sent District Eight off to their own personal death match, maybe that can be perceived as hate. From a normal point of view, hell, of course it would.

Again, so many questions, so much storming in my brain. I don't think I hate her. I don't. It's more like I have to hate her, and that makes it a million times worse because I can't decipher real emotion from forced. Iridium and Coralie deserve someone to put the blame on, they deserve my hatred towards Jasper. She killed Iridium, and by winning, she killed Coralie even if it was another career that did the deed itself. She killed my duty, the duty that I put upon myself to help someone. That overthrew my desire for the rebellion, my desire for the blonde beauty waiting for me at home to win and sweep her off her feet.

It was all nothing compared to what I wanted to do and be. Rectifying my mistake unconsciously. And she shattered that by cutting Iridium's head off.

My stomach curdles, a brutal battering and I slump backwards in my chair. Do I hate Jasper because she killed Iridium, or because she ruined what I wanted to be? Did I ever even truly care for anyone but myself... was that ever a part of who I was?

"Jasper," I croak, a thousand puzzle pieces multiplying. I couldn't connect anything even if I tried. Jasper, I wonder what Jasper is feeling in the wake of the Hunger Games she managed to survive?

She's another volunteer, though Gryphon mentioned her reasons were slightly different to the classic glory-hunter, she still volunteered. She's like me whether she wants to be or not, whether I want to be classed in the same category as a girl who joined the group of people that killed the mute girl I called a friend.

"Yes, the girl you won with." I sense something in his voice, something resentful, or incredulous maybe. I'm not the Sterling he mentored, not the big brute with the soft inside that he only showed towards his section partner. I'm just Sterling, the guy who doesn't even have a damn clue who he is anymore.

"Did you ever know?" I blurt out. Without a filter, I don't care what I say. Gryphon, Ilisa who mentored Coralie, Jasper, my stylist, Tony my gang leader. All of them mean so little to me now, not when I can't conjure up a simple answer to a single question.

"Know what?"

I look over at the elevator door when it opens with a light ding. Someone walks out, formal attire, eyes glued on my rugged, tired form. "Did you ever know who you were once you left?"

I peel my eyes away from the suited man who nods sharply to stare at Gryphon, blanching. I sense his confusion and look away, breaking the answer that might or might not have been building up.

I don't even want to know. It's different, he's not me and I'm not him. Jasper is her own self too, whether she's coping or not isn't even my responsibility.

_I should hate her. Hate her guts. I get to go back in the Arena after all the other Games and exact the revenge Iridium and Coralie rightfully deserve. I should be... happy..._

Yet I feel nothing, not a single shred of what I used to feel when I step into the open elevator.

Another ding, another sound that marks the next stage in my journey. We shoot downwards towards the train that will take me back to my old life, where I'll build up the blocks of what I can salvage only to have them ripped from me when I'm forced back into the Arena.

I had a choice in the matter. I chose to run up to that stage as a volunteer, a proud representative of my gang with rebellion and love in my heart. A fool's quest. I condemned myself to losing two people I'm trying to call friends and losing myself in the process.

I can't hate Jasper, we'll never be close, but I can't hate her.

She did exactly what I would have done if I had have been in her shoes. Maybe we're all different, but our will to survive is similar. I killed a career, one of her friends. She killed one of mine.

In a sick sense, maybe it can be counted as even. Does that make me feel better? No. I'm past the point of feeling better. I'm past the point of feeling anything anymore.

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**In case you aren't familiar with the style for this series, each tribute has been placed within a section which all act as mock Districts. We assigned each tribute to a section randomly and here you are, your tributes representing District Eight:**

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**Section One:**

Male- Gabriel Waye _(lil'hawkeye3)_

Female- Malena Chavelier _(bobothebear)_

**Section Two:**

Male- Watte Anderson _(SparrowCries)_

Female- Cambrie Allaire _(__Sunlight Comes Creeping In)_

**Section Three:**

Male- Nicholas Roskyn _(Aspect of One)_

Female- Phoebe Cyprus _(__walk off the moon)_

**Section Four:**

Male- Russel Arvoy _(Lupus Overkill)_

Female- Medina Hator _(LokiThisIsMadness)_

**Section Five:**

Male- Regis Cavanagh _(jessicallons-y__)_

Female- Malley Radke _(District11-Olive)_

**Section Six:**

Male- Harvey Kendal _(Dracones__)_

Female- Merritt Lisle _(Nrrrd-Grrrl-Meg)_

**Section Seven:**

Male- Alestor Koren _(Acereader55)_

Female- Clio Russet _(__katsparkle13)_

**Section Eight:**

Male- Burton Hurst _(Flintlightning)_

Female- Nyte Devany _(Queen Non Compos Mentis)_

**Section Nine:**

Male- Fustian Woods _(PenMagic)_

Female- Thill Hardestry _(mangesboy01)_

**Section Ten:**

Male- Cathail Rafferty _(DA Member Hogwarts)_

Female- Adria Seiler _(__BadJokesAreTheBest)_

**Section Eleven:**

Male- Robin Ronus _(ToxicatedRose)_

Female- Dinae Noven _(Remus98)_

**Section Twelve-**

Male- Kazunari Fortesc _(Choi Junhong)_

Female- Cecilene Karnes _(Pika And Olive's Adventures)_

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**Blog link – the13gamestextiles . blogspot (Also, posted on my profile)**

**On the blog there will be the usual information present. We added the authors for each tribute, each of us have chosen the six tributes we will be writing for. Plus, with the help of Immy, we added some more strengths and weaknesses for those who were either lacking, or lent more towards physical rather than mental. We want each person to try and get a fairer picture of each tribute on the blog, building a more complex image helps to build up a stronger opinion (be it positive or negative).**

* * *

**As with all my stories there will be certain questions that go alongside each chapter, so we start now with this chapter.**

_**From the blog, based on first impressions, who are your favorites and why?**_

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**Submissions took a while, I apologize for that. I don't know why it took such a long time but we eventually got a little bit over the number so all four of us are sorry to those who didn't get in. Only a couple were rejected, the majority however were accepted so congratulations and thank you to those who did submit and are now a part of this SYOT.**

**Next chapter we start with the reapings. Although the structure hasn't been fully discussed just yet, I think I can say that if you read Luxury it might be somewhat similar to how I laid out the chapters for that. **

**As always, that little annoying note about reviewing. None of us have that rule about your tribute dying if you don't review, it's up to you at the end of the day. All I have to say is that I understand life and all, but considering we're taking on your characters, giving them life as it were, the polite thing to do is say something. Doesn't have to be much, just to at least let us know your thoughts and to show you are actually reading. Plus, when it comes to the next story in the series, we'll know who we want to submit more than others ;P**

**Thanks again everyone, next chapter we'll start to see these wonderful tributes!**


	3. Section One Reapings

**Section One Reapings.**

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**Gabriel Waye, 18 years old;  
Section One Male, Cashmere67.**

* * *

Swaying my legs back and forth, I tap the back of my heel on the brick, the sound of my boot beating against it resonating. I peer down a moment and grip onto the ledge tighter, the empty streets below me striking me. They're never this deserted this early in the morning, but I have to keep reminding myself that today isn't like any other day.

With just the thought of the Reapings, I roll my eyes, tilting my head backwards. The sunset is looking like one of those sappy paintings you'd see in a rich person's home.

Like one of those paintings that exaggerate what this oh-so glorious country really looks like. I mean, if you squint enough, you'll see right through the smog that covers District Eight. You might even be able to see past the electric gates and guard towers, if you look in a certain direction.

My lip twitches at the sound of someone else's boots now on the pavement below, and as I look down, I notice that it's an older woman. She has a shawl wrapped around her head and a woven basket in her hands, and as I watch her every step, it makes me nervous for a moment. She takes a turn down one of the alleys, and once I can't hear the tapping of her shoes, I bite down on my lip.

It's all too familiar. It reminds me of my sister too much – the thought of following the same path that woman did. Walking down an alleyway unknowingly, and in the matter of seconds… I shake my head, looking back up at the sky.

I can't think of anything like that. No, not today. Now is not the time for me to reflect on my life, feel guilty, and pity myself. What's done is done, isn't it? Even if it's my family, I know that Claire isn't coming back. Nothing I can do or say will get her back, and nowadays, I barely find myself connecting to her at all.

It might have only been a year ago, and I hate to admit it, but she's drifting off. It stills tears me apart on the inside, but only if I'm in a mood like this. One of the moods you get into when you're on top of a quiet factory, trying not to retain some lung disease from the smoke stalks next to you.

"Gabe!"

The voice makes my ears perk up, my head reactively spinning around. The door seems to be open, with rust on the hinges and all, and I scan the area, and finally see Nut in the corner trying to hide from me. I crook my neck, not wanting to play along, since frankly, I'm not in the mood.

"I see you, _Nathan_," I call out, knowing that it would get him to pop up immediately. Recently, he hasn't been a fan of his real name. He prefers those cute little nicknames, which, in reality, are only mocking him.

I don't think he gets it.

"Oh, shut up," Nut mumbles, his voice monotone. "What are you doing up here, anyway? Thinking of what you'll say to all of your adoring fans if you were to die?"

Turning away, I avoid the conversation, his words making me feel antsy. If I were to die… it's a thought I can't bear to even think about for a moment. I stare forward, the image of Jojo flashing in my mind, the sight of her being impaled with that boy's spear making me grumble.

"Nah," I reply playfully, not wanting him to bring the idea of it back up. First Claire and now Jojo and it's not even the actual Reaping yet. "Just thinking of what I'd do with all my winnings."

"Prostitutes," is all he has to say. Well, that's Nut for you. He still has trouble getting into bed with three of his toes and he expects to hire a prostitute.

I feel his hand ruffle through my hair, and as he sits down next to me, I feel more comfortable for a moment. Although Jojo still sits in the back of my mind, I know I can't dwell on her. Especially not in front of people… there's no point in it. People don't want to hear me self-pity or moan about the past.

"You're quiet today," he says, nudging me with his shoulder. "I like it for once. Your voice gets annoying after a while. Hey, have you seen Ty around?"

I scoff. I won't even mention at how quickly he changes topics, going from my voice right to Ty, Jojo's brother. Call me a hypocrite, but I change the topic this time, not wanting to bring up Jojo anymore.

"Maybe he's finally doing you a favor and making you a new shirt down at the factory so you can replace that piece of trash you're wearing."

All I hear from Nut is a laugh, and as he begins to ramble on about something new, I tune him out. I continue to look out into the distance, the sun being higher up in the sky now. Even if I don't want to, it all comes back.

My sister.

My girlfriend.

The fact that they're gone now.

And I didn't do much to prevent it.

I have to stop thinking like this, and that's the truth. It distracts me, and let's say I was to be reaped today, I can't afford to be distracted. Not just for me or my family and friends, but for Claire and Jojo too.

If I were to be reaped, I couldn't let myself get distracted.

It takes away from the now.

And that's all I care about.

* * *

**Malena Chavelier, 15 years old;  
Section One Female, jakey121.**

* * *

The dull grey sky sends a chill through the alleyways. I crack my neck, titling left then right and prop up backwards against the rough brick building.

"You shouldn't do that you know," Degraw smirks, folding his hands in his lap. "It's not good for you."

An unwashed tomcat pelts up to him, purring, dragging its shaggy ginger fur against his outstretched fingers. The creature's surprisingly beautiful for something so unwanted. A lack of love, a lack of anything really.

"We should name him."

Degraw laughs, drumming his left hand against the concrete. The furball continues to run its whiskers and fur through his fingers, warming to my friend, my only true friend.

"He's probably got some beaten up tramp looking for him."

"Doesn't mean we can't name him." The ginger head snaps up, two bright orange eyes staring at me. It turns and pads along over to my left hand, pooling in grime. Degraw shuffles onto his shins, leaning forwards with that snide little smile on his face. The one that drives me crazy and makes me want to hug him at the same time.

The vibration coming from the cat makes me smile. A dry clacking sound resonates from behind my tongue, my parched lips setting apart. "Where the hell is Azure with some water, it's been a day."

I hear Degraw's stomach grumble and we both chuckle, connecting in our misery.

"And those muffins."

"She probably ate them all," I joke, pressing back against the concrete. The cat props up onto my lap, circling round after its tail for a second and settling down against my torn trousers, finding a nap between the crook of my knees.

"I think he likes you," Degraw starts rapping his knuckles against the concrete. A harsh but recognisable tune. A hum builds up at the back of my throat in time to his beat. Soon enough, away from any eyes or ears we're in sync, a song lost to everyone but ourselves.

Usually we'll perform up front, not for anyone in particular, only the busy bumbling Eight citizens who happen to walk past the dilapidated neighborhoods we settle. Business is harder in the merchant sides of town. Peacekeepers crack you on the ear with a baton, harsh women set their dogs on you.

But we manage, Degraw and I. United in our esteemed loathing and hardship to the world and ourselves. Azure is a necessary help, maybe another person I can call a friend on a good day. When she brings us what we need to survive, when we don't perform or when money is at a minimum. She's there and in exchange we're around for her.

The song ends on a high note, my humming and his drumming fading out. The cat's purring fills the silence and then we both laugh. I like laughing despite the pain in my chest. The Eight air is musky, always has been. Just another incentive for me to hate the world. I don't blame anyone but myself though, my mother didn't force me into that...

No. I purse my lips and gently bring my knees up to my chin. The cat doesn't stir, its ginger fur stroking against my skin brings a brief moment of warmth that fluctuates in my stomach.

"We're only really happy when we have company."

The pair of us perk up at the sound of her voice. Azure, ever the chubby girl, sways on the balls of her feet. It's not her arrogant little face hidden under those round rosy cheeks that catch my attention, it's the basket in her hand, a bottle of water and the top of a collection of muffins poking out from the wicker.

The cat hisses when I throw it off, a blur of ginger sent into a puddle. "Sorry mate, food comes first."

Degraw makes it to Azure first, wrapping one arm round her pudgy shoulders and the next diving into the bounty within. Chocolate chips, warm little raisins poking out of the fluffy exterior. The pair of us inhale two muffins before Azure can slap our hands away.

"Save them, I don't know if I can make it back for another round today."

"Why not?" I ask, taking a swig of water. My throat immediately bursts back to life, the itching disappearing.

"Reaping day, my mother and father will be celebrating as usual. If I don't get picked that is."

I see her downtrodden face and my heart sinks. Reaping day. The worst day of the year magnified tenfold with the number that will be chosen.

My arm twitches to wrap round her, but I don't. The water cools my throat when I take another sip, and like with the cat, I disregard Azure's pain for my own well-being.

We can't all be saviors, not all of the time. Sometimes it's me and me alone, sometimes I have to be selfish.

* * *

**Gabriel Waye, 18 years old;  
Section One Male, Cashmere67.**

* * *

"Ow!"

I pucker my lips, peering down at the woman at the table. Winking at her, I pretend that the prick from the needle hurt, and all she does is roll her eyes.

"Next," she says, giving me one final thing. It's a card, the number '1' on it, and I get that it means that I'm in the First Section.

I take my time to get to the section, eyeing everyone that passes me up and down. Once I make a contact with someone, I wink or nod at them. I tap my finger on the side of my pants, just wanting this to be over with.

I'm not scared, no. What I am, I'm not sure there's a word for it.

I just want to know what's going to happen to me, that's all. I'm not scared.

On the stage, the Mayor appears, his face rather expressionless. I'll admit, he looks rather handsome, with his bright-blue colored tie and all. It matches his shoes well.

"Greetings, District Eight. It's an absolute honor to be away from the Capitol to decide who shall be chosen today."

Following his words, the escort makes her way onto the stage, her hair bouncing up and down with every step. She's just as dressed up as the Mayor is, but she looks too over-done. As she grips her long fingers around the microphone, I adjust my collar, raising my head upwards a little.

The escort's hand dips into the bowl, ringing her finger around the inside of the bowl. Each section is given its own bowl, and as she picks the card from the first female's bowl, I pay attention closely.

"And now, for your first female," she says, opening the slip. "Malena Chavelier!"

I look around the first female section, wanting to find out who this girl is. I've never heard of her name before, so I guess that means she's a nobody. The section goes quiet as a Peacekeeper makes his way through the section, grabbing at one of the girls.

And there she is – Malena Chavelier.

I'd say she's about fifteen or near that. Just as I'm about to look away, I see Sarah in the first section as well, and that catches me eye. I stare at her, ignoring the words that are coming out of the escort's mouth.

And once I see Sarah's eyes widen, that's when I know. Her jaw drops, bringing her hands to her mouth, closing her eyes immediately.

"Come on, Gabriel Waye, don't be shy!"

"What?" I say, unaware that it was my name that was called. A Peacekeeper tries to grab my arm, but I pull it away, simply standing there.

I can't move.

But, I have to.

My legs are shaking now, but as I force them to move one at a time, my hands begin to shake too. I shake my head side-to-side, forcing a smile on my face. Broadening my shoulders, I steady my steps, not wanting to seem helpless.

I can handle myself.

As I pass by one of the cameras, I give them one of my famous winks, but I know that this façade is only temporary. I step up the stairs, keeping my body tight.

_I was reaped,_ I think. _I'm going __i__nto the Games._

Once I make eye-contact with Malena, I keep up the whole charade. I smile at her, winking at her, inching myself closer.

"Why, hello, there," I coo, nudging my elbow at her. "It seems to be that we're going into the Games together."

For now, I can keep this up. I can act all tough and mighty for now. But, once I see Sarah again, and then Ty and Nut, I falter a little bit.

How long can I really keep this up?

I'll have to crack eventually.

But, for now, I won't show any weakness.

It's not the type of person I am.

* * *

**Malena Chavelier, 15 years old;  
Section One Female, jakey121.**

* * *

"I've been to plenty of reapings, none of them had this feel to it."

I mumble something in Degraw's direction. All I can focus on is the milling of Eight, all the families and those unwanted thrown together to the butcher's nest. Scabby knees, puffy tear-streaked faces cuddle up together, the bent and broken continuing to support one another.

Degraw and I stick with them, Azure with the other folk. The rift isn't always here, not always. The rich with their frills and frocks, their preened faces and hand-holding, they don't smile nor laugh, but they don't seem so chipped away at like the rest of us.

This is the one day they feel like they're being tortured. For us, it's an every-day occurrence. It doesn't get to me as much as it did, the numbers are swaying to our side. Soon enough, even Azure might join us in the back alleys of District Eight.

"Twenty-four, that's a hell of a lot." The throngs of people scatter at the appearance of the Peacekeepers on the horizon, a distant dot of white and then the blur of grey. A fog has crept in from the factories where the hills poke up to the sky. The white is meant to incite horror, our Peacekeepers not quite so peaceful as their title suggests. But right now it's almost like a beacon, something we all congregate towards.

"Compared to the thousands, it's really not that many," I contribute finally. Degraw and I walk side by side. I maintain the distance I set between myself and others at all times. I cant have them always there, always hovering over me like I'm useless. It brings out the worst.

"Still, the last Games only ended like a week ago. Already we're being thrown into the deep end."

"It wasn't as easy for One as they probably thought it would be. Serves 'em right."

There's a deep prejudice amongst the District for the people who pride on training and their ability to kill. Here in Eight, you hear tales of the hungry stealing not only a loaf of bread from the houses they intrude. A body here and there, a gruesome story to chill the kid's at night. It's all dramatic but true. I've seen it happen from our cosy street corners.

But it's not the same as those careers. They train to kill when they don't have to kill. When they can save their lives and live in peace. We don't have that luxury, and yet they take it for granted. No wonder we seem so bitter to them.

"I'll have to go this way for now but I'll see you afterwards, okay?" Degraw doesn't stroke my shoulder, nothing tender or sentimental like the other families that slowly pull apart. I nod and smile at the gesture though, knowing it's there.

The Peacekeepers aren't quite so graceful up close. Big, broad-shouldered hulks of pure evil. One jokes at a little old lady then laughs with his comrades. I want to spit in his face, knock him to the gravel. I keep my head and eyes rooted on the Square though, ignoring them even when the slight prick of the needle makes me wince.

"Take this." He passes me a card, a bold '1' centered to the middle.

"What is it?"

"Twelve sections per gender. You're section one deary, now move." One of his pals shoves me forwards. I barely manage to hold my balance and feel that gnawing in my stomach, the urge budding behind my eyes. A mixture of anger and sorrow. Pain. I need Degraw in these moments, Azure even.

Yet I walk by myself, lonely amongst the thousands.

A few girls I recognise, pretty pampered young women amongst the girls who I've sometimes begged with. We all share a curt nod, even the pretty ones. We're all together for this one day, no point for petty rivalries when we're all being offered up to a death by game show.

It takes a few more minutes for the buzz of our arrival to settle down. The ineligible wait at the sidelines whilst the rest of us are cropped up and shoved into sections. They need their tributes, their sections to act as their pretend districts.

I watch the Mayor walk on the stage. Boring and unenthusiastic, the same old show. He's dressed up in drab attire, head to toe in formality that makes me sick to the teeth. His welcoming is curt and frank, his fingers tap away at his leg until it's time for the treaty.

As always, no one focuses on this part.

"Greetings, District Eight. It's an absolute honour to be away from the Capitol to decide who shall be chosen today." The Escort trots onto the stage, replacing the Mayor.

Her tone speaks patriotism, but her disdain for us common-folk is as clear as the makeup on her tinted cheeks. Her arrival, though annoying, though unsettling, brings about a wave of fear.

My stomach coils. This is it, the beginning of the end of twenty-two of us. And then those Victors returning to horrors they rightfully survived.

I've lived on the streets, battled against starvation with my friend. This isn't a fight I think I can win if it's me... it can't be me...

It shouldn't be anyone.

Livia's hand delves into the sea of white. Her nails circle, then circle again. Each section has its own bowl, so much glass up there alongside her, so many lives lying in wait for her to destroy.

She takes the first name from the bowl, condemning one of us girls.

"And now, for your first female."

Make it one of the pretty ones. Make it one of the broken ones. Make it anyone but me...

"Malena Chavelier!"

Anyone but me...

The stage sways in front of my eyes. Livia gestures and calls for me again. I know... I know what this means, what it means for me... death.

A sob claws up my throat, begging to be released, screaming to be heard. I know if I cry, what will happen. What my chances will be. If I cry, I don't think it's possible to stop.

The Peacekeeper who pushed me earlier marches to my side. He holds me at arm's length like I'm holding some infection. If it was any other time, I'd feel mad. I'd be furious. I'd want to smash that visor and tell him where to stick that baton.

But right now, all I hear is Degraw calling my name. All I hear is my heart pounding in my head.

And all I see is death.

Because I'm a tribute, and there's not a single thing I can do to change that. There's nothing anyone can do to save me.

* * *

**Gabriel Waye, 18 years old;  
Section One Male, Cashmere67.**

* * *

"Gabriel! My poor, poor boy! How could they take you away? How could they…"

The door swings back against the wall, the hinges nearly snapping off. She ushers into the room, her arms already spread out, and once she wraps them around me, I see my dad sauntering in behind her. The image of the sullen expression on his face isn't helping.

"Dad," I say, giving him a forced smirk. "You're allowed to touch me, you know. I won't report you to the Peacekeepers."

My own comment reminds me of Claire and the Peacekeepers, but I don't give it too much thought once I see him starting to come over to me. You know, my father always reminded me of myself, but at least I have the youth. He's old now.

"What will we do without him?" My mother cries, burying her face into my father's shoulder. He looks up at me and then wraps his arm around her.

"You? You'll go back to working in the factories," I reply, trying to add some levity into the conversation. It's too mushy for me right now. "And me? I'll go into an arena full of District Eight kids that want to come home as bad as I want to."

"But you have to come! You… You have to!"

"Calm down, Page," my father says, tightening his grip around her. "Our boy will do just fine. He won't let himself go down without a fight."

Once there's a knock on the door, I finally feel a sense of urgency. That this might be the last time I see them and all we've talked about is petty things. I don't know what I had expected for these good-byes, but it doesn't seem like enough. I got no closure from this.

What if this is the last time I see them?

It can't be.

As my parents begin to walk out of the door, they stop, both turning around at the same time. We exchange one last smile – one last small gesture until I go off to the Capitol. This is what they'll remember me by.

The door doesn't even close before Nut, Sarah, and Ty show up in the room. I focus on Sarah and Ty, their faces explaining everything to me without them having to say anything. They look miserable. Although it's not really my fault, I feel like it is. They lost Jojo to the Games only a year ago and now there's a chance they can lose me too.

I can't let that happen.

"Aw, cheer up, guys," I say, lightening up the mood. I barely get a smile from Nut, who's always laughing at something. "I'll be fine, really."

"And how do you know that?" Sarah asks, staring down at the ground.

"I work in a factory, hm? I can use sewing needles like no other and I know how to work a peddle like a madman."

"The arena would have to be a sweatshop for that to work," Nut adds. "I bet the arena's more suitable than this place. They probably have fresh fruit and water."

I shoot him a look, and for a moment, we all chuckle. A genuine laugh, one that sort of distracts us from what's really going on here. I'm not one to indulge in anything too sentimental, but I'll admit, I'll miss them. I shouldn't really talk like that, though.

I'll come back and see them again.

There's no doubt to it.

For the next few seconds we just sit there in silence, all staring at different things. It's just as awkward for me as it is for them. Sarah's picking at her nails, Ty is tapping his foot, and Nut is staring off into distance, thinking about absolutely nothing probably.

"Do you think you'll meet people there that will replace us?" Nut asks, breaking the silence. "I mean, we're not perfect, but we're hard to come by."

"Did you see half of the kids who were reaped? They don't seem like anything too special."

"Don't think that way," Sarah interjects, her voice serious. "Don't underestimate them. I don't even care if it's a joke, Gabe. This isn't a joke. You're going to the Games and… and I can't let you die like Jojo did."

"Sarah," is all I manage to say before she cuts me off again.

"No, Gabe. I shouldn't think about it, but I am. You can die in there just like Jojo did, do you understand that? I can't even imagine what I'll do with the loss of two people I care about."

There's another knock on the door.

Sarah's the first one to leave, not even giving me one final good-bye. Ty pats me on the shoulder, following Sarah quickly. Nut is the last one to leave, and as he holds out his hand for me to shake, I hesitate.

"This isn't good-bye, you know that? So put your dirty hand down."

"Yeah, yeah," Nut responds, walking towards the door. "You know, the thing I'm looking forward to most is definitely the Chariot Rides. I can't wait to see you all prettied up and looking like one of those models. Make sure to be shirtless."

And then he's gone. Just like that.

They're all gone. Not gone-gone, but gone from the moment. And now all I have here is me in this room, left with my thoughts.

Left with the thought that I might not come home, and at the same time, there's the thought that I might come home.

I force a smile onto my face, trying to suck up the bad thoughts and push them to the side. How hard could the Games be, anyway?

But, it doesn't last for too long. I go back to sulking, my body feeling completely off right now. One thing that I don't do, though, is self-pity. So, I have to get over it.

I'll work with what I have and try my hardest.

That's all I can do.

And maybe that will bring me back home to District Eight.

There's a chance for everyone and I don't plan on taking mine for granted.

_Don't miss me too much, District Eight. I'll be home soon. _

_You can count on it._

* * *

**Malena Chavelier, 15 years old;  
Section One Female, jakey121.**

* * *

Azure used to tell me that it was healthy to smile. She said during those midnight trades of laughter and food that for each and every moment I felt like crying, that it was better to turn it into something happy.

I laughed in her face, not cruelly, but because despite every chuckle it didn't mean anything. Not compared to what was out there, past the wall of the alley and in the rest of Panem.

Laughter and smiles were false, the kinds of acts we're meant to believe in so we can hold onto a shred of happiness.

And now I know why I felt that way. Because I was right.

"... it's not fair." Degraw's hand tenses over a vase, ornate patterns swirling along the china. All I want to do is smash it, like he does. All I want to do is tear these walls down and run away before it's too late and there's no where to run to.

"Don't be an idiot." I wipe a tear hanging from the underside of my eyelash. "I won't let you get beaten up for being some kind of heroic asshole."

He laughs painfully. His shaggy hair is even worse now, straggly and twisted from his pulling. I knew he cared, never how much. We remained distant in that respect, Azure was the only person who ever really understood sentimentality.

"Not like I can do much with a vase is it?"

Murmurings resound behind the thin wooden walls. It's like they want us to hear each other cry in our last goodbyes, tear apart some kind of humanity that's inside us and leave it for us to scream over. I'm already broken by Eight, I won't be broken by these Games.

"I guess this is it?" I shrug my shoulders, sighing. Degraw shifts over to me, almost glides. He's lithe on his feet, always has been. We don't usually steal now that we have Azure, but it's always good to have these little talents in a tricky spot. Maybe street life has given me one thing I can use, stealing... hardship... I'd trade it all to see my parents again.

"No." He doesn't close contact, he knows better. But his fingers dangle over my knees where cat fur clings to the material. I let out a watery laugh, another sob beginning. A sob I can't let out in fear of what it might mean afterwards. "No you aren't dying, you hear me?"

"Come on Degraw." I let my head fall back and laugh. "Come on, the chances..."

"Two get to leave. You're tough Malena, you'll be going in there with kids who learnt how to sew whilst you learnt how to survive."

If only that were true.

"You saw those volunteers. And the rest of them. Sure, there are some I could take out easily, but do I want to?" Really, that's what's hurting more. The fear of my own death is horrifying, but the process before. What I have to do if I don't want to die... I was never one of those street rats. Not those kinds that killed so they could live.

He bridges the gap, for the first time. Shock builds up and I feel my eyes widening. Something squirms in my stomach when he holds onto my hands... something nice and something horrible meshed into one sensation. He's holding my hands.

"Malena, you have to... you have to..."

"I know I have to Degraw." I don't what possesses me to do so, after all these years, but I do it anyway. My fingers tighten round his and I let another tear trail down my cheek. "But I'm not sure that I want to."

Azure would want me to fight because she knows I can. I know I can. I wasn't always fighting of course, no one is born into this world fighting, there are always those beginning moments of bliss when you can just look at the world without feeling like it's closing in.

And then it does. Whether it's in a matter of days, months, years. It finds its way of shutting down and you're left fending for yourself.

Azure and Degraw want me to fight and I want to too. I have to return home. The killing part is a puzzle I have to work out first, before I can justify my actions I need to know if I can carry them out first.

"I'll try Degraw. I'll do my best."

His hands leave mine. When he goes, I'm left sitting, alone. Alone until the Peacekeepers come. When the clock ticks down my last minutes of staying in a place I hate and I'm shoved right into an even worse place.

Then the cycle continues and the Games begin. I'm always living some kind of nightmare.

* * *

**Thanks to lil'hawkeye3 for Gabriel and bobothebear for Malena!**

* * *

_**Which tribute from Section One stood out the most to you, why?**_

* * *

**There you have it, the first reaping. Quick update since it really isn't difficult to get these POVs done. They're not too long and we only have 6 tributes each so I think this story will progress at a reasonable enough pace!**

**I doubt every update will be two days apart but we'll try and maintain something that gets these chapters out fast. Anyway thank you for reading and reviewing, keep it up!**


	4. Section Two Reapings

**Section Two Reapings.**

* * *

**Watte Anderson, 17 ****years old****;  
Section ****Two**** Male, ImmyRose.**

* * *

"Isn't this exciting? We could be sleeping in or something, and instead we're stuck taking out the rubbish." Evan complains, scrunching his nose up at the smell as he hoists a rubbish bag into the nearest bin outside, "This is boring. And I smell."

"No worse than you usually do." I say, dumping my load alongside his.

He sticks his tongue out at me as he gingerly takes out a few scraps and tries throwing them at me. None of them even reach me as I give him a skeptical look, "Mature. I'm sure that's worth losing this job over."

This is enough to make Evan be back on his 'best behaviour' again as he cleans up the mess, "Don't even remind me. If this is one of the nicer jobs we can get, I'd hate to be a factory worker."

He has a point - this was one of the best jobs around for kids like us. The Hollands are lenient enough as long as we keep their house clean, I get to spend time with Mother without being seen as overbearing. Even the pay's pretty good; I know a fair number of kids at school who'd kill for a job like mine. Yet I still wonder what life would have been like had Mother not convinced the Hollands to hire her son, how I would have turned out if I was just another factory worker.

"Actually, I wouldn't mind." If it meant that I could identify more with the majority of District Eight, then I would have happily taken up factory work, but Mother had insisted that I work alongside her.

Evan gives me an odd look, but someone else manages to speak before he does, "You'd prefer to work in a factory over here?"

My hackles rise at the belligerent tone of Riah, the Hollands' only child, "I'm sorry, am I not allowed to consider that as an option?"

"Why would you ever do that when you have all of this?" She gestures all around us before cheekily adding, "Especially when I'm here."

"Maybe if you actually let us get on with our work instead of distracting us, we'd appreciate your company a lot more." Despite my best efforts, my reply is too harsh, the tone of my voice being flat and unwelcoming.

Riah's lip curls back at this and I sigh inwardly. Yet another interaction with someone else that I had screwed up, "Aw, how hardworking of you. Cute."

"I'm not here to be 'cute' for your benefit." I point out irritably, wondering what she was doing talking to me in the first place.

She's no longer leaning against the wall and her eyes are narrowed at me, "Alright then, alright. If you want to be all boring, there's more work for you in the kitchen. You," she nods towards Evan. "You can stay here with the trash."

Riah gestures with her hand for me to follow, as if I didn't already know where the kitchen was. Then again, Riah liked hanging around with the servants; she appreciated the company. She even tried talking to me, although I had yet to maintain a conversation longer than twenty seconds without putting her off. Riah has yet to realise that she wouldn't like who I was if she knew the first thing about me. That was why I was making sure she never got enough information about me to find out.

Who would want to be friends with me, anyway? I hadn't even managed to greet Riah properly without agitating her. To the casual observer, all I had been doing was trying to irritate her and I hadn't even been trying. As for Evan, he didn't have any other friends to speak of - he couldn't do if he willingly associated himself with me. His mother was friends with mine; no doubt he only tried talking to me out of politeness.

Aside from those three, everyone else seemed to get it within the first few seconds of meeting me and kept away from me.

"Here we are!" Riah spreads her arms out wide as she runs into the kitchen and spins around, good humour restored as she waltzes out. Even I snap out of my pensive mood when I see who's washing dishes at the sink.

"Mother?"

As she turns around, her hands rise out of the water, alerting me to the inflamed patches on Mother's hands. Concern seeps into my tone, "You've been working too hard again."

"I do no more work than is necessary to keep us alive," she replies briskly, not allowing herself to be overwhelmed by bitterness or self-pity. It was a mentality that I admired in Mother, not that I should have expected any less from her.

Too bad that my father wasn't the same way. He most definitely wasn't 'responsible' in the slightest - the way he had treated Mother is evidence enough of that. On the plus side, he had taught me that men just generally weren't trustworthy enough to treat women - or anyone - the way they should be, including me. I made an effort, but really, I could be doing so much more for Mother than I was.

"And you expect that working yourself to death's going to help with that?" Inwardly, I wince at how blunt my words had been.

Her lips curl up in amusement, "Scrubbing dishes isn't the daring task you're making it out to be, Watte. I may be in my thirties, but I can do anything you can just fine."

Hearing this only makes me admire Mother more than I already did. Realising that your boyfriend was such a bastard and then giving birth to me on top of all that couldn't have been easy on her, but in spite of this, she hadn't let any of that get to her, "And I think I should be worrying about you today, dear."

"Oh, about the Reapings?" I inquire as I start drying the dishes she left out. She nods and I continue, "I wouldn't let that get to you, Mother. There's nothing you can do about them, anyway."

She visibly relaxes when she hears this, "Well, as long as you're okay then."

I smile reassuringly at her and she passes me another dish, letting me fall into the constant rhythm of washing up. For once, I allow myself to relax, unburdened from that omnipresent desire to keep others away from me. If Mother knows and accepts me for who I am, that's all that I could ever need.

* * *

**Cambrie Allaire, 18 years old;  
Section Two Female, Cashmere67.**

* * *

"Did you see what she wearing?"

"I know, like, it was totally _drab_."

"Seriously, what was she thinking?"

"She looks almost as bad as Cambrie."

"Huh?" At the mention of my name, I am snapped out of my daze, the people sitting in front of me all staring at me now. They stare right at me, as if I've done something wrong. "Oh, oh. Yeah, she looks so bad. Has her mother taught her nothing?"

_As if mine taught me anything, either._

"Look alive, maybe?" Sasha asks, her mouth twisted into a disgusted expression. She rolls her eyes, looks away, and turns back towards the crowd in front of us. "Seriously, what is your problem today?"

"Sorry, Sasha," I say, nearly choking on my own words. It pains me to speak to her like that, but I've learned that I have to. If I can satisfy her, then I'm still a part of this… this clique, is what they call it.

To me, it's more of a pack of vultures, preying on the weak and less fortunate. But, for now, clique will do.

Leaning back on the bench, I cross my legs, placing my hands in my lap. I watch the three girls in front of me, all of them whispering into each other's ears, ostracizing me behind them. For a moment, I feel jealous, wanting to be right there next to them.

To really be a part of their so-called clique.

Their heads snap to the side, watching as one of the boys pass by. That's Royce, one of them boys that nearly every girl wants here. I simply look away, disregarding him altogether. My parents taught me better.

That's just petty lust, and I've been taught to not be petty.

I'm better than that. They, on the other hand, are not.

The three girls huddle in close together, and with every word they whisper, I can feel my stomach churning. I mumble to myself, debating whether to just leave now or try to join them.

"Did you see _that _one?" I call out, making them all look over their shoulders. "She looks like she just got out of the arena herself!"

They all laugh, their high-pitched giggles hurting my head. I stand up, brush the back of my skirt, and plop myself down next to them.

"You're too funny, Cammy!" Sasha wipes her eyes, the artificiality in her laugh obvious. "Where do you come up with this stuff?"

"She learns from the best," the girl next to her, Noelle, says. We all know that she means Sasha herself, as if I've gotten my personality from her.

That I'm the fake one in this situation.

"Well, that's enough for me today, girls," I say, wanting to excuse myself from this whole gathering. "I'll see you all at the reaping, yes?"

Before they can get a word in, I'm already turned around, starting to walk down the street. I glance over my shoulder only once, seeing that they're already back to their gossiping. I sigh, letting myself relax for once.

_How much longer can I keep this up?_

It's a question I ask myself every day. And every time I ask myself it, I remind myself why I'm there. Why I waste my time, pretending to be their friend and pretending to care about what they have to say.

Even if I deny it, I know it's true. I just want to be their friend, but I know we're too far past that point anymore. So, for the time being, I'll just act like I am. When I do that, I finally mean something to District Eight.

Who cares if people associate me with them? The mean girls of the District? The girls who are the privileged whores of the District?

I laugh.

They really are the whores of the District. Their manners, their etiquette… All of it. I was taught better than that. Prudence and modesty are key to maturity, and these girls clearly aren't any of it. They're vain, shallow, and narcissistic.

How could their parents let them grow up like that?

Mine would rather I be dead than to act like that. They taught me to always say please and thank you, to never put my elbows on the table, and to always kiss someone on both cheeks when welcoming them. My father and mother never taught me to gossip about the girls of the District.

That's just a choice.

A choice to advance myself in this District. To make myself a name – a meaning.

It's not that I really care about Sasha or Noelle, but I have to maintain my connection with them somehow. They make me look stronger than I really am. When I walk around with them, people are intimidated.

That's all I've ever wanted. To be seen as a strong and confident women.

Everything my parents have ever taught me made me feel submissive. They wanted me to be domesticated, to be the perfect woman in this society. They wanted me to find the perfect boy, one who will protect me and one who I will follow around. To them, I was a petite and delicate girl.

One who's immaturity had to be changed. So, they did. They went to any measure possible to change me. To make me more of an adult, more of the perfect woman in their eyes.

And if that meant me taking up dance classes and drinking imported milk from District Ten, so be it. They wanted to do anything they could to make me the daughter they've always wanted.

And now? I don't know what I am.

I just don't know.

* * *

**Watte Anderson, 17 ****years old****;  
Section ****Two**** Male, ImmyRose.**

* * *

A sombre mood seems to have settled over District Eight as I walk over to the town square alone; something that isn't helped by the clouds that hang over the district and the breeze that tugs at my clothes like a small child. It was almost enough to make me believe that I could fit in just fine with everyone else without burdening them with my existence.

Occasionally, it actually was possible that I could make someone laugh along with me, but those moments were few and far between. Nobody could stand me for long enough, not that I blamed them or anything. I can barely stand myself half of the time. What a disappointment I must be to Mother.

I shake my head like a wild dog would do, trying to dispel these thoughts. It almost makes me wish that I had the long hours and monotonous work that the factories provided. My thoughts would centre around things that people actually cared about, I'd actually be able to fit in and not worry about alienating everyone.

Out of the corner of my eye, I notice two girls giving me appreciative looks while whispering to each other. Once I squint at them, however, in an attempt to see if I recognise them, they're quick to look away.

It wasn't uncommon for people to look at me like they had done, like they genuinely wanted to get to know me better.

Well, they never did once they figured out that I wasn't some flirt or anyone remotely intriguing. Nobody was actually interested in me, they wouldn't be; they only really noticed me because of what I looked like. And being seen in that light, like I was nothing more than some object to be coveted and that everything else meant nothing, didn't make me comfortable. Really, it was better to just avoid going down that route with anyone altogether. I'd just screw it up and then everyone would hear about it in no time. It didn't matter if people liked what they saw or not.

My appearance is - once again - thanks to Mother. My tousled, dark brown hair and bright blue eyes were definitely features that I had inherited from her. It's a small blessing that I didn't resemble my father; why should my mother be reminded of him every time she looked at me? As if I'm not already enough for her to deal with.

Amidst the noise of children being ushered through to the square, I manage to slip into the queue. In no time, I've received the card and sidled over to the second section without drawing attention to myself.

That feeling of being watched has returned and I roll my shoulders and shift my weight restlessly. I hadn't exactly been thinking too much about the Reaping prior to now, but it was impossible not to be reminded of what awaited twenty four of them today.

I stare at the number "2" printed on the card, thankful that I would be in one of the first sections. Any vestiges of worry that remained would be assuaged so much quicker.

In spite of what I tell myself, however, it doesn't help stop my stomach clenching as the Treaty is read out. This time, it doesn't fly straight over everybody's heads; the chances of being Reaped are too high to be disregarded.

If it wasn't for the mayor informing us, I wouldn't have noticed Livia make her entrance, she's that indifferent to making an impression on any of us. Without preamble, she strolls over to the first bowl and unfurls the slip.

"Malena Chavelier."

Malena ends up being escorted to the stage, but manages to maintain her composure without flaunting herself to the watching Capitol. Predictably, her sector partner, some kid named Gabriel, does the complete opposite. Somehow, he not only manages a smirk, he even winks in the general direction of the cameras as he saunters up to the stage.

Although Gabriel looks capable, Livia's facial expression doesn't change as she unfolds the slip of the next unfortunate girl.

"Cambrie Allaire."

Realisation is quick to sink in; by the time Cambrie makes herself known, she's already crumpled, tears streaming down her cheeks. Her eyes dart around as she mounts the stage before she makes up her mind. She's launched back down the stage before anyone can react, but it quickly becomes apparent that Cambrie has no athletic ability to speak of and she's quickly surrounded.

Livia has already retrieved the male slip from the fourth bowl in the midst of all the commotion, "Watte Anderson."

Oh, of _course_. Out of every damn person she could have picked and they had to pick me. I had almost gotten out of the Reapings, I had only needed to survive one more after this, and yet I had still been picked. Why should I even be surprised?

I can feel my hands clench into fists, fingernails digging into flesh, but I can't feel any pain. The invasive, prying feeling of everyone's eyes looking at me, smug that it had been the annoying screw-up that had been picked, overwhelms anything physical I could feel as anger seeps in. Why wouldn't this make their day? They hadn't been picked _and_ they got to see me suffer like this. Now they wouldn't ever have to deal with me spoiling anything again just by being there.

Maybe this had been rigged?

_No, don't be stupid._ I veto this idea straight away. _Why would they care so much about you as to do that?_

Eager to be rid of me, no doubt, someone shoves me from behind. It's enough to kickstart me into action as I stumble onwards, managing to get to the steps before it really hits me. I'm going into the Games.

"Keep walking." One of the Peacekeepers nearby hisses at me, nodding his head towards the stage. Unwilling to experience everyone's eyes being trained on me, urging me to just get a move on and accept my death sentence, I keep my gaze firmly fixed on the floor as I mount the stage.

If they were all celebrating my misfortune, well, it wasn't anything new.

* * *

**Cambrie Allaire, 18 years old;  
Section Two Female, Cashmere67.**

* * *

"Over here, Cammy!"

I rush over towards Sasha, probably a little too eagerly, and stand there in front of her. She's flaunting around her card, the number '3' on it, and once I look, I see that the other girls have the same number on their card.

I look down at mine and see a '2'.

Sasha puckers her lips, shrugging her shoulders. "Sorry you can't stand with us. Maybe there are others in Section Two."

Nodding my head, I choose not to say anything, not really wanting to be bothered with her right now. I take my place in Section Two, standing next to a few girls I've never seen around before. I choose not to start any conversations, wanting to be paying full attention to the reaping.

Not that I want to be reaped, but if I were to be reaped, it'd have to be a perfect reaction. For my parents, that is. They wouldn't want me to show any emotion, weakness, or dissent. I'd have to walk up to the stage calmly, taking my place like a real woman would.

"Greetings, District Eight. It's an absolute honor to be away from the Capitol to decide who shall be chosen today."

For a moment, I find my eyes drifting away from the escort, not paying as much attention as I want to. I stare at Sasha, thinking what I would do if she got reaped. I'd probably smile, in all honesty. A weight would be taken off my shoulders, one that has been eating away at me for the longest time.

But, at the same time, I'd prefer her not getting reaped.

What friend would want another friend to get reaped? That's how friends are supposed to think. I'm supposed to care for her and to hope that she doesn't get reaped.

While I was looking away, I see that a girl was already reaped, one who can't be older than about fifteen. She stands there, looking a little too nervous for my liking, and I can only imagine what my parents are thinking.

'How pitiful,' they'd say. Or, 'Shame on her parents. She's a mess in those clothes and makes her family look bad.'

And then I see a boy coming up to the stage, and I know who that is. It's Gabriel, one of the more known boys in the District. Sasha's smiling at him as he passes by, and she probably thinks that the wink he gave the camera was for her.

Is she that stupid?

It pains me to think that these are the girls I try to be friends with.

Once the escort goes to the next bowl, the one for the Section Two girls, I begin to get a little nervous. I keep my arms tight to my side, not wanting to let other people know I'm shaking. Now, I stare at the escort, taking a gulp once she has the slip in her hand.

I close my eyes and exhale.

"Cambrie Allaire."

My heart sinks.

My eyes shoot open, and before I can try to suppress it all, I let out a loud shriek. I hunch over a little, my legs feeling too weak to cooperate. The tears are forming in my eyes, but I try to suck it up, leaning my head backwards.

Not me.

It can't be me.

I know what I have to do.

I shimmy my shoulders and bring my head back up, striding into the aisle confidently. I sway my arms back and forth with every step, and once I approach the stage, I begin to panic.

The tears stream down my face now.

The escort holds out her hand, and I grab it, but once our fingers interlock, I run. I run as fast as I can, not even looking back for a moment. I see an opening at the edge of the stage, and that's where I beeline towards.

I can make it. I can run away from all of this.

I've always ran away from my problems. I don't have to face this.

I don't…

Two arms grab me from behind, and my body flings backwards, right into the arms of a Peacekeeper. I shake uncontrollably in their arms, mumbling things to myself that even I can't understand.

He drags me back onto the stage and not for one second can I stop shaking. I stand next to Malena and Gabriel, staring down at the ground.

I ruined it.

My parents… what will they think of this?

"Watte Anderson."

Still staring down at the ground, I keep my head completely down, not wanting to look at my parents in the eyes. They are definitely looking at me, a disgusted expression on both of their faces. They're embarrassed by me.

I made the Allaire family look bad.

I look weak.

I look fragile.

I look imperfect.

And that isn't who I am.

I am better than this.

_My parents didn't raise a loser._

* * *

**Watte Anderson, 17 ****years old****;  
Section ****Two**** Male, ImmyRose.**

* * *

"I - I just can't believe this." Evan says, gaping at me as he waits for me to agree.

Thing is, he's the only person here that's in any state of disbelief, and his lack of foresight when it came to me being Reaped grates on me, "Yeah? Well since when were either of us exempt from the Reaping?"

"Yeah, well it's not fair!" He throws his hands up in the air before adding, "Oh, that kinda rhymed."

I smile, trying to make his efforts to lighten the mood worthwhile, "I always did say you were going to become a genius one day."

"There's no 'did' about it. You're still alive and you - you'll stay that way. Who's going to keep your head screwed on?" He manages a grin at this, "By the way, I call dibs on all your old stuff - when you get back, of course!"

"Ah, I see how it is now." I reply absent-mindedly, although the way he tacks this on makes my heart sink, "You're welcome to it all; I won't be needing it again."

He frowns a little, but is quick to recover, "I guess when you get one of those nice houses in Victor's Village - "

"No, I mean that I'll be dead." I hadn't particularly wanted to be so forward in the Justice Building, but I hadn't reckoned on how grating this denial really was. Covering up the truth with flowery euphemisms wasn't going to help anyone.

He blinks, apparently stunned at such a suggestion, "No you won't. You're strong; you always do the manual jobs back with the Fairmonts alongside me. They'll love that! They - they'll be lining up in dr-droves over y-you! In the Capitol, yeah. I mean, they'd - they'll, even - be fighting over you!" Evan laughs nervously at the end, bobbing on the balls of his feet.

I scoff, "Yeah, I'm sure that my corpse will make a great attraction."

As usual, he ignores this. Nice to know that some things never change, "And if that's not enough, I'm going to make the Hollands raise money for you, Watte. They like you, they'll do that! And - and get them to throw a celebration when you get back, yeah."

He sounds like he's trying to convince himself more than anything and he has to look away, blinking rapidly. It's too late though; I've already seen the tears starting to form in his eyes, but I stare out of the window, feeling awkward with this blatant display of emotion.

This is my fault. If I had just let him reassure me like he was trying to, then he wouldn't be like this. Naturally, it wouldn't change the situation for me, but he could have pretended that he would see me soon. And I hadn't even allowed him that.

The snick of the door closing makes my head whip around, but he's gone. No reconciliation or final goodbye, just me treating him like crap right down to the last moment. Again.

I jump when the door swings open again and Mother appears. The sight of her looking so reassured, so normal, is enough for me to burst out, "Mother! I'll never manage it, I can't do this - I won't even get any sponsors! Everyone hates me - "

"Nobody hates you, Watte." Mother interjects patiently, "The only person who was ever against you is yourself."

I remain silent, wondering what Mother was trying to achieve with this, and she takes this as her cue to continue, "For once, try and have a little faith in yourself," she shuffles her feet before furtively adding, "And I hope to see you soon."

"Don't forget to lie flowers down on my grave when you do." I blurt out before I've had time to process the words, "White, if you can get them."

Hurt flashes across her face and I kick myself. Mother had actually turned up to see me off and all I was doing was throwing that back in her face, "Sorry, that was - "

"No need to apologise; you're under a lot of pressure, I know." Mother replies pragmatically, reaching into her pockets and withdrawing what I presume is what she intends as my district token. She tried giving me a steely look as she presses it into my palm, but she can't hold my gaze for long.

It's a watch, one that my grandfather had passed down to Mother years ago, and one of the few things in my household that had sentimental value to her, "Well, I suppose that when I have so little time left, one of these will come in handy."

She heaves an almost inaudible sigh and I realise that she didn't expect me to return to her alive either. There's an awkward pause before she hesitantly opens her arms and I reluctantly walk into them. The feeling of having her arms wrap around me isn't one that I'm too familiar with, but the gesture is appreciated nevertheless.

Mother backs away, "You remember who gave me that, don't you?" I nod at this, "Your grandfather didn't hate you, did he?"

I knew perfectly well that Mother was trying to prompt me into feeling better about the situation, but she seemed to forget that with family, you were naturally going to overlook your relatives' flaws. However, I find myself nodding, unwilling to have my last meeting with her degenerate into some petty debate, "Of course he didn't, Mother. He loved me too."

The impatient rapping of the Peacekeeper interrupts what Mother was going to say next and with her feet dragging against the floor, she gives me one last glance, "Just remember that there _are_ people who care for you, Watte. You don't have to face w-what's coming for you alone."

She's gone by the time her words have sunk in, and I slump back against the wall. Mother's right - she's always right. I don't have to go through the Games alone, but what person in their right mind would want me as an ally? They'd just ditch me the second they saw what I'm really like.

Nobody's going to want me; I'm straight up useless. Although Mother has put up with me for so long, I wasn't dragging her down anymore. She doesn't have to worry about me or my father again; Mother would be heaving a sigh of relief at having the last reminder of my father out of her life, I'm sure of it!

Mother...even her composure had cracked when she had tried feeding me rhetoric about how I actually stood a chance. And if the person who knows me the best doesn't really think I could survive, neither would anyone else with an ounce of common sense.

And why would I believe I have a chance if nobody else does?

* * *

**Cambrie Allaire, 18 years old;  
Section Two Female, Cashmere67.**

* * *

"What is wrong with you?"

My mother rushes over towards the couch where I'm sitting, and I regret ever thinking that she'd be sad to see me go. Before I let out even a peep, her hand is pressed against my shoulder, pinning me down to the cushion.

"What did you think you were doing?" My father berates from behind her, his arms crossed on his chest. His eyebrows are furrowed, his voice serious.

I try my hardest not to cry and not to say anything. I don't want them to be any more upset than they already are. It was my fault… I shouldn't have ran like that.

"Do you have anything to say for yourself?" My mother screams in my face, her warm air making my cheeks feel all moist. "Do you, Cambrie, do you?!"

"No, mother," I reply as calmly as I can. I hold myself together, not letting myself express any more emotion. She doesn't want to see what I feel or hear what I want to say.

She doesn't care and neither does he.

They're just ashamed of me.

"Disgusting," my father comments, and just that one word has the impact of a thousand. That's all they think of me, isn't it?

That I'm disgusting?

That I have never lived up to their standards?

Is that all I am to them?

My mother turns around, her hair all messed up now. She's breathing heavily, her back hunched over a little, and I can't see her hands in front of her. As she spins around, I could have never prepared for what she is about to do.

Her hand comes into contact with my cheek before I can turn around, and the tingling and burning sensation afterwards makes my eyes begin to tear up. By the time I open my eyes back up, I see them gone, not even wanting to say one last thing.

I bite down on my lip, trying to stop the pain from surging through my face. Clenching my eyes together, I try to not cry, since I've already done enough.

I've cried enough today.

I've made enough mistakes.

How much more can I do?

Finally, I begin to calm down, not wanting to look in the mirror to see the red mark on my face. I can tell that it's been a few minutes already, and the thought comes to me. Where is everyone else?

Where are my other visitors? My parents couldn't have been the only ones who wanted to come. Even if it was to scream and yell at me, they still came. That means something.

Where's Sasha? Or Noelle? Where are my friends?

And for the first time in my life, I'm upset. I'm upset because they don't care enough to come. I would've come to say good-bye if they were reaped, but they couldn't do that for me. It's too much to ask, apparently. Now I see it all.

In retrospect, I should have seen this coming. I meant nothing to them, nothing at all. I was only a nuisance in their lives, just being there to make them feel better about themselves. That's what I was taught to do, though. I was taught to go along with what people say and to compliment them whenever I can.

No one's ever done that for me, though. I always had to make myself feel better.

And now… I don't know if I can. Now that I'm truly on my own, I see what I'm really like. I've always depended so much on people to make me laugh or put a smile on my face. I could never do anything for myself, especially not make friends or get people to like me.

I was so used to everything being handed to me on a golden platter. I never had to work for something, and now, I have to. It always seemed that the girls just liked me and that I didn't have to do much to get their attention.

Will it be that way in the Capitol?

Will the other kids from District Eight like me too? Or will they just abandon me in my time of need?

"Poor Cambrie," I mumble to myself, bringing my hand to my cheek, still feeling the warmness from the slap. "Thinking anyone actually liked you."

Hearing my own voice sort of soothes me, as if someone is actually in the room with me. My voice fills the air, cutting right through the silence. It's distracting me from the pain of the slap and from the pain I'm feeling from being abandoned.

Now, all I can think about is how I'll redeem myself. How I'll act in the Capitol, how I'll come across to others, and how I'll win these Games. That's all that matters now, isn't it? None of this petty stuff?

"Get over it," I say out loud, feeling disgusted with myself for self-pitying. "You were raised better than this."

And I was. I was raised better than this. I was raised with the idea that I was one of the most beautiful girls out there, that I could do anything I want, and that nothing can stop me. I might not be the docile girl my parents wanted, but I'm something else.

I'm something more than that.

I'm a tribute in the Hunger Games now. I was reaped, whether I like it or not, so I have to adapt to it. I have to think of ways to win now, not to make friends or how to impress people. I don't have to have the best manners, the best form, or the best look. That won't matter in the Games.

In the Games, I have to be prudent, astute, and clever. And, if that means I have to use a few people along the way, so be it. I've been used enough in my life time, so it's only fair. I'm now in charge of my life. Not my mother or father, and most certainly not my so-called friends. They don't matter anymore.

From now on, I have to raise myself.

I'm the only one I can count on.

It's all up to me.

I'm going to win and my parents are going to lose. They're going to realize that I'm not the girl they thought I was. That I'm not the girl they wanted so badly. I am not some porcelain doll that people can take advantage of. I'm free now and I can do what I want.

_I'm free._

_I have nothing to live up to anymore._

* * *

**Thanks to SparrowCries for Watte and Sunlight Comes Creeping In for Cambrie!**

* * *

_**Which tribute from Section Two stood out the most to you, why?**_

* * *

**Well that was faster than expected. Enjoy! ;D**


	5. Section Three Reapings

**Section Three Reapings.**

* * *

**Nicholas Roskyn, 17 ****years old****;  
Section ****Three**** Male, ImmyRose.**

* * *

Without fail, I wake up everyday and am almost blinded by the sunlight pouring in through the ratty curtains. Naturally, today was no exception. Perish the thought that any _change_ would happen in my life.

Grumbling, I roll over, being greeted with a small, lithe figure that was splayed out over on the other side of the bed. For a moment, my eyes widen at the possibility of something new before the memories of last night come tumbling in. Approaching a girl with red hair and an enticing smile in the hopes that she would - somehow - be different from the others that I had fucked before, that she would be smart enough to figure out what I really want before I got rid of her.

Her eyes snap open, blinking blearily before she gives me an odd smile, as if trying to recall who I was, "Oh, hi. You know what the time is?"

"We have a couple hours left before those Reapings." I wave this away, making no attempts to move as she gets out and starts getting dressed.

Once I say this, however, she stops midway, giving me a coy smile, "Enough time for, you know, to have some more fun?"

"I'm afraid not. Have to help my parents out and all." I manage to infuse an authentic note of disappointment in my response.

Unfortunately, she doesn't take the hint, "Well, there's always this evening or tomorrow."

If she could even remember where I live after she went home, then I'd be impressed, "Sure, there won't be anyone in after the Reapings."

This sates her as she starts getting dressed again. I look away out of habit, feeling the need to maintain a good reputation even today when it didn't matter a bit as I wait for her to leave. When she pats down her pockets, she frowns slightly, "Hey, you know where my purse is?"

_Oh yeah, it may have slipped out of your pockets and into my drawer_. I'm tempted to say this, but since when was simply telling the truth any fun? Instead, I feign confusion, "You're telling me you don't remember?"

"Remember what?!"

"Last night, with those men mugging you before I came along?" I pull off this blatant lie earnestly, hoping that this girl had been sober enough that she would recall what had really happened, which wasn't anything anywhere near as exciting, "No doubt they took it."

The redhead pouts, "Aw, well I'm sure I can get a new one." She must still be half-drunk if she thought that was the biggest problem with 'losing' her purse, "Thanks ever so much for helping."

"Anything for a pretty one like you." I grin, elated at how easily she had fallen for something so extravagant before I realise that if any other person had slept with someone as drunk as this girl had been, they would have shown _some_ concern, "Wait, can you remember anything that happened last night?"

"Yeah, who could forget you?" She aims for a flirtatious tone, but the way her eyes dart around as she backs away towards the door gives away how desperately she's struggling to gather her memories, "Well, see you later."

"Can't wait." The smile disappears once the door closes and a mild wave of irritation surges up in me. It appears that, once again, I had managed to lure in an idiot. She didn't even seem to harbour the common sense that most people had if she honestly thought that I hadn't been using her in some way.

And yeah, I had; that girl wouldn't mean a thing to me by tomorrow, but I hadn't really been too interested in the sex. I had spent my time feeding her a tragic story about how I was the sole provider of my family following the tragic accident that had conveniently killed both my parents and how I had to balance two factory jobs, waiting for that girl to call me out on how extreme my story seemed, but she had fallen for it hook, line and sinker. Chances are that she didn't remember a single detail now and I got nothing from this ordeal but a couple of coins and another disappointment...again.

I lie back against the sheets and close my eyes, idly pondering the day when _someone_ would see through my lies and call me out for them, someone who would actually make living exciting, a challenge.

It takes Dad threatening to kick the door in before I bother getting up again. Shoving on the clothes nearest to me on my bed, I shuffle downstairs, the tell-tale signs of an argument reaching me even from here.

" - you have the attention span of a child, and about as much intelligence as one." Judging by the matter-of-fact way in which this is delivered, I assume it's my oldest brother, Venys, speaking; something which is confirmed when I walk in, "Is it really so surprising that you don't have a job yet?"

I roll my eyes as he says this, already knowing exactly who was going to speak next.

"Venys, manners!" Par for the course, Mum chastises him while Chele, my second-oldest brother, tuts disapprovingly, "Sable, it's just how he is. Ignore him.

"I'm sure he doesn't mean it." Chele chimes in.

_Just like he hasn't meant it the past several hundred times?_ I resist the urge to sigh. How had Mum not realised what Venys was like yet and accepted that?

"Cremile, why would I waste my time informing Sable of his flaws if I did not think they were there?" Venys deadpans.

Mum opens her mouth to object, but I've already tuned out. It's nothing new. As always, Venys is driving Mum up the wall while Sable's passionately objecting about some trivial matter in the background. The usual.

Don't they ever get sick of this, going through the same motions over and over again? I know I was tired of this routine of ours, and I've only put up with it for seventeen years. Well, I suppose that simple things amuse simple minds.

Drumming my fingers on the table, I wait impatiently for something, anything new to happen. For Mum to stand up and announce that she was having an affair or for Sable to admit that he had gotten some girl pregnant. Honestly, any of those things would be _interesting_ to deal with.

"So, what do we plan on doing after the Reapings?" Dad diffuses the budding debate. I have to remind myself that listing exactly what we did every year would not go down well with anyone.

"I'm going out." I interject smoothly into the conversation before Mum or Chele can plan a 'feast' to celebrate another year unscathed, although Venys will ruin the occasion by pointing out that we're basically celebrating the misfortune of the actual District Eight tributes as he always has done. Regardless of how predictable even my outings with Lucern and Orphey were becoming, they were far superior to a quiet evening here.

"Going out." Dad manages to load all of his skepticism into those words, "Is that what they're calling it now?"

I ignore him. He's made no secret of his dislike for having such a dishonest 'profession' but really, what did he expect when the alternative was rotting away at home, knowing what you'll end up doing every single day?

What sort of life is that, when I can inform him of what I'll be doing for the rest of my life because it's just that predictable? Why bother doing anything when it all turns out the same? Even people all act similar after a while, discussing the same topics and finding amusement in the most mindless aspects of life. Good thing that I'll get to see first-hand how well they'll react to someone livening up things around here today.

It's almost a shame that my last morning with my family has turned out the exact same as every other day.

* * *

**Phoebe Cyprus, 18 years old;  
Section Three Female, jakey121.**

* * *

"Round and round the axeman goes." _Red, red, grey and black. _"Round and round the graveyard."

_Midnight, twilight. Red and black. _"Here he comes to chop your head." _Red. _"Oh no, shit you're dead."

I burst out laughing, wiping a tear that blurs my eye and drops to the painting. A red line in cheap crayon traces from the base of the canvas up and round the corner, above the moonlight painted a darker shade of blood and ending in a silent cascade that washes over the axeman's face.

His face is guarded by a straw mask, cut from a sack with tufts of orange wheat. I smile, adding texture and detail to the axe with the gentle touch of red and black, the blackest of all blacks.

"Phoebe." Someone raps timidly against my door frame. I ignore it, rooting myself into my work. The hum of the song continues to gently loll me into a peaceful rest. It's sweet, beautiful almost.

"Round and round the axeman goes..." My hoarse voice would scare the cotton-candy dreams of any youngster. I'm not here to please anyone. I'm here to wish the world a bloody misfortune, the kind they're going to have anyway. Sweets and treats, sunshine and rainbows... the stuff of myth. The stuff of idiocy.

"Phoebe." Her voice is stronger and snaps me from the haze. I draw my fingers up from the painting before it can smudge and storm over to the door. We live in a shoebox, rife with vermin and mold clinging to the rafters. The door creates a torrent of dust when it smacks against the wooden walls and there my mother stands, face pasty white, lips pulled into a red sickly smile.

"Can I help you?" I groan. Always Mother will do this. Always, always, always. Just when I was having fun!

"It's reaping day."

Awesome.

"And?" I arch an eyebrow, glaring at my stupid so-called parent. The woman who gave me life and all she does is shove her nose into my business. It's _my _business. Not hers, not anyone's. Mine! She thinks that she can break down what she believes is a misguided barrier, a stroppy teenage barrier because I'm going through a... a what – a phase?! Bitch.

I snort. "And?" Repeating myself.

"Well, I thought we could have some kind of family breakfast-"

She shrieks when the wooden door slams into her fat nose, the hinges closing and shutting her out, again. I move back to my desk, ignoring what sounds like a gentle bout of crying. She's always so dramatic, though I can't blame her, the world is shrouded in such foolhardy and cheery morons. I can't blame her for the corruption in her head.

All I can do is ignore it and stay myself. Ignore what they all want and expect from me and just be who I am. I thought that was the greatest lesson anyone could teach you, the greatest piece of advice to model your life around.

_Be yourself. _So why does the world condemn me for that?

"Phoebe." More noise. More annoyance. "Phoebe open this door please."

His knuckles rap the door. My precious Father, come to make me apologise. It won't work, it never does. The moment my sweet little face comes into view, his tongue will dry up and all he'll do is squeak like the cowardly mouse he is.

The man of the house is governed by the two women. A cute turn of events, even if my Mother is a sap who quivers like a leaf when she's meant to be the one person to teach me.

"Phoebe."

"I'm coming!" I yell, once again my feet slapping hard against the floorboards. I open my door and look down at the pitiful sight of my Mother, cowering against the corner with blood seeping through her hands. _Red. The axeman. _My Father stands with a stern face, or, what he perceives to be stern.

All I see is a clown wearing a man's trousers.

"Phoebe, why would you do this to your poor Mother?"

Her sobs have ceased at least, the little sheep has stopped her bleating. I stare at her wickedly, then up at my father. I shrug my shoulders.

"No, not today Phoebe. Please not today, not when it's the reaping."

Always the Hunger Games. People think I'm so fascinated just because I paint with my favourite colour red and speak in a tone that seems to enunciate a love for the horrors. Sure, whatever, the Hunger Games can be cool. They're a pure image of why such talk of smiles and puking glitter is stupid and a waste of space. But they still kill kids. Kids who haven't done anything.

I doubt even I can justify the Hunger Games. Not if I really tried. They don't bother me, I try not to waste a minute thinking through the guilt I should feel.

"I'm not eating a family breakfast. The last time I had what Mother here made," I point a finger down at the woman who is now wiping her nose on her sleeve, surprisingly, considering she rarely likes to dirty her withered frocks, "she burnt everything and nearly set the house alight."

"That was because you got in the way and knocked a pan over."

The memory flashes back all to well. "Oh yeah." I smirk and step backwards, ready to slam the door again, nose as the target or a nice finger if he steps towards me and attempts to pull me out. He never does well with the parent thing, I've convinced him plenty of time to step the fuck back.

"Just..." He sighs, shoulders sagging. "Just please. We love you Phoebe. We don't want these fights anymore.

_Love. _The word leaves a bitter taste when they turn to leave. They love me, I know they do. They always have.

Sometimes, I wish I could feel the same way towards them. But then I remember who they are and I remember who I really am.

"Round and round the axeman goes..." I slam the door shut and return to my painting. "Round and round the graveyard..."

* * *

**Nicholas Roskyn, 17 years old;  
Section Three Male, Immy Rose.**

* * *

"This is tame, even by your standards." And by tame, I mean that it's practically the same thing that we do every couple of days or so. You just have to love the routine things you have to endure just to survive around here.

Lucern, one of the more 'daring' people in this part of District Eight, rolls his eyes at this remark, "Careful, you're sounding an awful lot like Orphrey there."

"You better watch it." I reply with dramatic flair, punctuating my words with a grin just like Orphrey always does. Said boy mockingly blows me a kiss at this. He, at least, adds an element of surprise to these outings with his insincere ways.

" - with how short-sighted you're being. Peacekeepers are always more vigilant on Reaping day." Lucern informs me matter-of-factly, although he makes no attempt to hide the gleam of excitement in his eyes. And then he called me and Orphrey the reckless ones.

"Sounds too risky for likkle Nicholas here." Orphrey pouts at me, "Looks like he'll be distracting the shopkeeper with how pitiful he is, right?"

I nod, trying all the while to convince myself that something as benign as talking to someone could be just as risky as outright stealing. It was the only way to make this tedium worthwhile, although it didn't require anywhere near as much effort as stealing did. That was always a plus.

We shut up as we enter the rundown building that passed as a bakery, Orphrey and Lucern splitting away as I feign interest in the wrinkled jam tarts that were on the shop counter, "Oh, they look wonderful, ma'am."

She gives me a tight-lipped smile, eyes glancing at the clock and how close it was to the Reapings, "Only half price, I'll have you know."

"Aw miss, you're practically ripping yourself off there." I gesture at the jam tarts, which were ludicrously priced in reality, "Surprised they aren't flying off the shelves yet."

"I've had to replace them three times this morning!" The shopkeeper's voice rises; a sure sign that she's exaggerating, "Special recipe is what I've pegged it down to."

Leaning in closer as if intrigued, my free hand reaches down and swipes a couple of the bread rolls that were under the counter into my pockets, making sure that I don't glance down once, "Sounds great. My mum loves jam tarts, but she can't ever afford them, you see." Backing away, I incline my head at the shopkeeper, "I'll keep this place in mind next time she has the money."

The casual talk between my two associates marks my cue to leave and I'm out of the door before she can reply, not bothering with anything as pointless as formalities when I had much greater plans in mind. What did any of this matter in the end up? Is me learning to adopt to the predictable life that I have until the day I die worth it? There's so much more beyond this that District Eight would never provide for me; danger, adventure, something thrilling and difficult and _challenging_ above all else.

There's nothing risky about conning a shopkeeper, nor is there anything that can get your adrenaline flowing through your veins about getting your body mangled in a factory. That requires cautiousness and precision to avoid; traits that dull anything I may get out of factory work once I have mastered them.

It's why I only nod along when it turns out that we came away with more than we paid for...as we always did nowadays. It's not worth my time anymore.

By the time we saunter over to the queue, I've handed over the spoils to the others. Despite knowing how uncharacteristic this was coming from me, they readily accepted my gifts, presuming that it's a rare showing of my 'charitable' side, although really, what's money going to do for me once I was whisked away on that train?

The pricking of my finger doesn't even hurt as I accept the card. The other two have already dispersed, but this is forgotten the moment I realise I'm in Sector Three. It's fine by me; my volunteering will make so much more of an impact that way.

_I'm going to volunteer for the Hunger Games_. I repeat this mantra in my head, trying to exhaust some semblance of emotion out of the words.

Any traces of excitement this could inspire up in me have been snuffed out by the time that the mayor's finished droning on, my mind preferring to dwell on the dangers that could await me shortly. The complexities of the arena, the mutts that were specifically designed to scare you and witnessing the slow decline in sanity of the other tributes.

I shiver at the thought. Finally, I'll be doing something new, I must be. Even the most ardent opponents of the Games acknowledge the fact that the Games pull the tributes out of their comfort zones. And that's exactly what I want.

When was doing things the easy way ever considered worthwhile, anyway?

It takes a shriek from a girl for me to realise that the Reapings have already begun, but once I fail to recognise the blonde girl being carried to the stage, I shrug this off. Some pretty girl crying over her death had no bearing on me, so what did she matter?

Why should I care?

Without a hitch, the escort heads over to the sixth bowl. It takes the boy's name being read out for the implications of this to sink in, but I wait, admittedly curious as to how this boy would react. He's nobody that I know, so there's no harm done.

Snivelling and twitching worse than a crack addict, his reaction is far from noteworthy as he manages to stumble forwards a step or two before collapsing to the ground and I hear another horrified scream. How dramatic.

Now seems like a good time as any; this kid's no competitor and it makes me look selfless in the process, "I volunteer."

Calmly, I stride forwards, chin raised and posture straight, giving smiles to a couple of the stunned crowd as I mount the stage. Although the escort shows little surprise at this, one of the Reaped girls looks at me as if I've grown another head, while another boy glowers at me. I suppress a grin at this; having the other tributes feel resentment towards me would surely amount in them feeling slightly more inclined to try and kill me. If I was subtle about making myself a target, it would make these Games so much more problematic.

"Nicholas Roskyn, at your service." I beam at the cameras, my gaze not wavering in the slightest. There's no point trying to find my family in an attempt to gauge their reactions. If they really care, they can pester me in the Justice Building. I won't have anything else to do to pass the time.

That's not going to happen, not once I've stepped into the Capitol. No longer will I have to sit around and put up with the monotony of my old life. That's gone and finally, these Games will give me exactly what I want. Maybe, just maybe, I can really feel alive.

Who knows? I might appreciate my life a little more once I finally risk losing it.

* * *

**Phoebe Cyprus, 18 years old;  
Section Three Female, jakey121.**

* * *

His blonde hair is silky and meets his brown eyes in a fluffy fringe. He smiles when my hand reaches his shoulder and I grace his hand with my own fingertips, twining with his.

"You know I love you right?" Drew's high voice laced with innocence, covered with the pureness of his soul, burns through my chest and hits nothing.

I smile falsely and grip onto his hand tighter. My only ally in this godforsaken place and he's in love with me. I can't lose him. I won't lose him. So I play this charade because it's better to lie than to be lonely.

"Of course," I nod and swing our arms together, back and forth through the fog. The grey sky has dampened the streets, cast in an overcast shadow that the rest of these tiresome folk cuddle and croak under. They cling to their families and friends, masking their miserable faces with timid smiles that allow them to be brave.

I feel nothing at the sorrow which accompanies today. The sight is what brings me joy, a warmth in my chest that Drew, nor anyone, can ever fill.

"I hate this weather," Drew mumbles with a grin, shivering in the chill. "But I bet you love it."

Before us, the Square opens up in a concrete courtyard, lined with the registration tables and the Peacekeepers that border the sections roped off. The people in white look cold, as miserable as the people they torment. Yes, this weather is perfect.

"You know me Drew." I sink into his side and we continue to walk together, as merrily as someone like me can be. Drew's cute in his own little way, his shy way. He'd rather hide his face with a pen in some pages than be seen outside socialising. But with me it's different, with me he makes the effort so I let him parade me around as his _girl_. I'm no one's girl, he doesn't own me – not that he ever looks at me that way – but regardless, I won't even let Drew stop me from doing what I want.

Right now, it's fine. All I want is this drab affair to be over with so I can return home and paint.

"Take this." The registrar passes me a card once we reach the table. The pair of us are processed and we look down at the little white sheets.

A '3' covers mine, whilst Drew who was only behind me, receives a '9'. The system is random, yet for some reason it doesn't feel that way.

"I'll see you right here okay?" He leans in for a hug and begrudgingly, I link my arms round his thin frame and let him stroke my back. When he pulls away I let loose a breath and lighten my face with a smile – today the only day I smile honestly. The people drop their faces for sorrow, so I put my own brightness on for their misery.

The hustle and bustle of District Eight dies down when the Mayor trounces on stage. His get-up is typical, a few girls snicker beside me at his clothes. Like there's anything ever to judge from what one person wears. You can tell if something looks bad or looks good, but who honestly cares?

I'm covered in torn garments, not caring for the special dress laid out or the countless pressurings of my mother to make my face _pretty. _I don't care for that nonsense.

Finally, the Mayor is over and the Escort, even worse than our boring leader, begins the reapings. The first two are complete opposites, one on the verge of crying whilst the other radiates charisma.

The next section provides a runner, we don't get those often, yet when we do they always fail and Cambrie Allaire is no difference. Her male companion is nothing special, I like the look on his face, the expression, but that's all I get from him. Some of the girls around me in my section are muttering about Cambrie, idle gossip that they'd rather contribute to than focus on the next bowl being probed for a slip that will kill one of us.

Kill a bitch who deserves to die. Maybe one of these two-faced cows.

"Phoebe Cyprus!"

Or, whatever, kill me instead.

Before my mind processes it, a simple sigh leaves my lips. A sigh that represents everything that buzzes through my head and burns inside of me. A sigh, because of course, the girl who paints in red and doesn't join in these pitiful fools is the one cast to the slaughterhouse.

_Time to die Phoebe, might as well die before your time._

Or maybe it's not my time? Maybe I should fight?

I've never really fought for anything except my individuality, purely because what comes out of people's mouths is nothing I should adhere my own life too.

But now it's a new fight, a fight for survival. I trudge up to the stage, a march in my step. The other tributes stare at me blankly when I join Watte to the left.

Survival. I've always talked about death, now I'm considering the opposite.

Perhaps it's time for a small change.

* * *

**Nicholas Roskyn, 17 years old;  
Section Three Male, ImmyRose.**

* * *

"What do you think you're doing?" Mum shrieks the moment she bursts in, her hair slightly disheveled.

"Why, whatever could you mean?" I can't even be bothered to stand up from where I'm leaning back against the couch to look at them properly. It's not like I haven't seen their faces before or anything, "How could I ever let that poor child face the arena alone?"

I laugh, knowing full well that they'll never believe that I'd risk my own skin for anyone, but Dad is having none of this, "You think this is a joke?" His voice is quiet, "You just volunteer on a whim and you think that's _funny_?"

"Why else would I be laughing?" I wave a hand, brushing off his queries that way. I don't particularly feel like dealing with his drama right now.

"But Nicholas, don't you realise what goes on in the Games?" Mum asks, sounding for all the world like she can't understand why anybody would want to get away from such a tedious existence. In her defence, it isn't as if I ever confided in her or anything, "You can die in there."

"And we can't have anyone doing anything new, can we now?" Impatience with my family is making me tetchy as I finally turn to face them, "Gotta stick to the same old, same old, am I right?"

"You're seventeen, Nicholas. Seventeen years old!" Dad feels it necessary to exult on my age, "You have no idea what could have happened in your life and now you'll never find out!"

I inspect the dirt underneath my fingernails, unwilling to look at him in the eye, "Like what? Oh, I know! I might work on...a sewing machine instead of a factory. Maybe I might have taken an exciting detour to some crappy hospital and rot in one of those instead after losing my arm."

"I would have taken that to you sleeping in all day and ruining the welfare of everyone else with your antics!" His cheeks are turning an unattractive shade of red, "And now this. If these Games don't teach you to grow up, then I don't know what will."

Sighing, he leaves, muttering something that doesn't sound complimentary about me. Venys starts to follow suit, but gives me an inscrutable look before leaving, "You could have done so much more with your life than you ended up doing."

He's already using past tense, no matter the fact that I still lived. That was Venys all over for you; he doesn't have time to pander to your feelings.

"Nicholas, I just don't understand." Mum coos.

"Do you ever?" I murmur, but she ignores me.

"What on Earth could have convinced you that this was a good idea?" Her voice is almost inaudible as she tries prying the answer out of me, "Is life really that bad?"

"Is something going on?" Chele's eyes narrow at the thought of something hurting me. He had always been like that around me and Sable, "Is that why you wanted to escape?"

I shake my head, not allowing their concerns to sour my judgement. They may feel it fit to share their problems with each other, but what use did that have outside of sating their curiosity? "No, no, there isn't. I'm fine, you two."

"You think this is 'fine', Nicholas?" Mum raises an eyebrow, "I've always made it clear that we're there for you, but we can't help you anymore."

"And we'll still be supporting you, even if you can't see it." Chele adds, "We just want you to understand that before you go."

I decide against dragging this out any longer than it needs to be and appease them, "Sure, sure. I appreciate it."

Chele walks over and tucks another pillow behind my head, "You watch out for yourself, okay? Don't be a complete idiot."

He seems to consider this worthy of 'cheering me up' and my lips curl up obligingly, "You know it."

The door slams open before Mum and Chele can leave, allowing Sable to burst in like a gust of fresh air. There's a slapdash grin on his face that grates on me, it's that forced.

Sable sticks around once the others have left, shuffling his feet as he gives me an odd smile, "You're not just gonna throw away your life, are you?"

"Dunno, maybe I'll feel like being nice and throw myself in front of an ally."

He crosses his arms, exaggerating the motions so that there's no way I can miss it, "Don't do that. You've already struggled enough to get here. You're really just going to ruin all of that?"

For the first time since I got here, an unfamiliar sensation seems to gnaw away inside of me, woken by his words, and it takes a while for me to recognise it as guilt, "_That_ has nothing to do with what's happening now. Why should the past influence what I'll do in the future?"

"If it's still bothering you, then it matters!" The passion in his voice blinds him to the fact that he's almost shouting and he blinks suddenly, only just becoming aware of the noise seeping through the walls as the door opens to prompt Sable to go.

"Goodnight, Sable." I don't bother dressing up my words this time, "Have a nice day, as you always do."

His brow furrows at this 'abrupt' change in attitude, but as I knew he would, he just shrugs it off and leaves with nothing more serious than a sloppy salute.

Through the doorway, I can see that I have a lot of visitors, some that I don't recognise from a quick glance. Well, aren't I popular?

See, most of them don't like me, they like who I pretend to be, who everyone else aside from my family see. And if it was that easy to deceive them, how hard could it be to win over the Capitol? They weren't exactly known for thinking deeply about tributes past a shiny chariot outfit and an interview.

Not to mention the other tributes. Like everything else in Panem, they'll be predictable, creatures that could be figured out. It would be only too easy to slip in among some unsuspecting alliance and tear it apart from there, letting them do all the work while I sat by and planned out its destruction.

I close my eyes again, shutting out all plans for the Games. It doesn't really matter what I end up doing in the arena right now, anyway. I can always think about it later.

* * *

**Phoebe Cyprus, 18 years old;  
Section Three Female, jakey121.**

* * *

"Maybe I'll become the axelady."

Over the wailing coming from other rooms, I sit in my solitude. My parents will be here soon, with Drew having left moments ago. The necklace twirls between my fingers as I rock, back and forth in the chair. A simple strand of wire with a splinter of wood hanging downwards. 'DP.' Drew and Phoebe. Death and Peace.

Carving our initials, the boy is sentimental to a fault. One day it will bring him down to an end he won't be able to control. Unless I return to him, and now with the effects of shock wearing out, the question still rages through. Drew's answer giving me nothing to ponder except the same question, over and over again.

Will I fight, or will I accept that it's time for me to pass on?

For hundreds of days I walked around District Eight and accepted the way they stared at me. I accepted their looks as a compliment, it meant I was something to stare at in splendor because they saw a spark of difference within. Now they'll see the back of me when I go into that Arena. They'll see me either leap from a pedestal and accept the fiery flames, or they'll see me tear apart the competition because the knowing of my difference was enough to give me the fight to survive.

In the most twisted way, maybe it's the people I scorn who will save my life. Maybe...

"You have visitors, dear."

The kindly man in white, perhaps the only gentle-voiced Peacekeeper I've ever known, peers round the door and steps back with a smile. The hinges creak open and in pours my parents in a flurry of grey wool and black feathers.

My mother's own dress was crafted herself using nature and her own supplies. Bird feathers claw at my cheeks when she embraces me in a rib-breaking hug. Her lips are soppy when they kiss my face, tears piling down the beak she calls a nose and landing in my lap.

"Mother..." I wince when another feather scrapes the skin round my jaw. It takes my Father to pry my over-emotional Mother from my body, leaving her to fall in a heap on the floor. A fat, chubby woman left to sag like a sack of potatoes.

My Father's own eyes are watery, his lip trembles when he places a hand on his wife's shoulder. I try to smile or say something, pour the last bit of goodbye I can put into a single word. Just something, something to appease them. Not an apology for being me, but a gentle word that will set their hearts to rest whilst they watch me give up or fight for my rotten life here in Eight.

Nothing comes to mind. The silence fills the gap between my Mother's sobbing.

Instead of watching my Father try to calm her down, I stare at a painting rooted into the wall. Golden-framed, delicately crafted. It's vile. The canvas portrays an impossible seen of joviality, of a smiling dinner party with old men, young men, crones and beauties all together in celebration.

It's meant to be ironic, maybe it's meant to make us tributes who will see it in our sorrow feel angry that they've subjected us to such a scene. I see nothing but a fantasy. An optimist's eye shrouded in mist.

"Phoebe." It's her who speaks, finally without a warble in her throat. I draw my eyes away from the filth and stare down at her ripe red face. Her hands reach for my knees and I grasp them, my fingers intertwining with hers.

A normal goodbye goes like this. Daughter and Mother combined in their grief for an early loss of life. The tears pepper her eyelashes and my own root behind my eyes, staying stuck where they always will in times of sadness. It's not enough to incite my love, but it's nothing I will ever break... I'm not selfish. I'm not cruel.

"I can't believe they're taking you away from me- from us."

My Father's hand rests on her shoulder. I see a gentle squeeze and stare blankly at the pair of them. They truly love me, they love me more than anything and all I've done is cast them away because they live a lie.

They'll always live a lie as long as they try to change me to be like them. Yet... they love me... they love me...

"I'll come back, Mother. I'll come back." My voice is nothing but a ghostly whisper, but the truth finds its ground. I will come back, I have to come back. I'll never make right whatever they believe I've done wrong. It has never been wrong to me, nor will it ever. But I need to be there for them, no matter our differences, no matter my hatred for anything that thrives outside my bedroom... I need to come back for my parents.

They've given me everything whilst I gave them nothing.

I need to come back...

I have to live, for them and myself.

I must win the Hunger Games.

* * *

**Thanks to Aspect of One for Nicholas and walk off the moon for Phoebe!**

* * *

_**Which tribute from Section Three stood out the most to you, why?**_

* * *

**One quarter of the way through these reapings, hope you've liked these six so far!**


	6. Section Four Reapings

**Section Four Reapings.**

* * *

**Russel Arvoy, 17 years old;  
Section Four Male, Cashmere67.**

* * *

On the screen, they're replaying the Games of the District One Games – the one where that girl and boy, Jasper and Sterling, won.

It was only about a week ago, yet they're still showing the whole thing over, as if we haven't seen enough. These Games in particular were emphasized for some reason, and I really don't know why. I sit back on the bench, watching the replays of the Games through the people that are walking in front of me.

It's busy for a morning in this square, but it's soothing. Just seeing all of these people get ready for the day reminds me of what District Eight is like. Everyone works, and even if they aren't happy, they do things for themselves. We work for what we have and even if we have to apply for tesserae occasionally, this is what makes District Eight.

It's completely opposite of what District One is like. Most of them are volunteers, all going into the Games because they want to. Why would they want to?

For the fame? For the money?

I'd never risk my life for that. I mean, my life back home might not be the best, but it's enough. I have a family, friends, and I am not living in a shack, so that's a plus. There's always a positive side to things here in Eight.

"Good morning, Russel."

My friend, Merino, sits down and begins to watch the replays with me. I nod at him, not wanting to look away from the screen. The screen is large, one of the biggest television screens I have ever seen. It's in this square, just to show people the Games. They'll be showing Eight's Games on that too, I'm sure.

"Just imagine yourself up there, huh?" Merino asks, but I really don't want to.

The idea is just unprecedented. Me getting reaped is worse enough, but actually fighting with a weapon… that's a different idea. I could never imagine myself killing anyone, not even hurting. I'm just not that type of person.

"I'd rather not," I answer truthfully. I'm already nervous enough since today is the Reaping day, and me imagining myself up there isn't going to help at all. "How are you, anyway?"

"The usual," he replies, still watching the screen. "I'd much rather be in the work than sitting right here, but I won't complain. We can always use a day off."

"That's true."

If I wasn't sitting here, I'd be working in the factory. They have me doing different things every day; sometimes it's just working with a machine or transporting goods, but other times, I actually have to do some taxing stuff. It gets annoying after a while, but it keeps me occupied. I've only gotten in trouble a few for times for being lazy, but I'm not lazy; I just like to take my time.

Call it procrastination, sure, but I like to make sure things get done properly and effectively.

"Well, it was nice talking to you, Russel. I'll see you at the Reaping, yeah?"

Merino stands up, and as he walks away, I can't pry my eyes off of the screen. I let him go silently, going back to watching the screen attentively. The way these tributes just kill is so meticulous; so quick, so guiltless.

Do they not feel remorse?

How are they comfortable with killing?

I guess I have to see it from their perspective. This is how they were raised, sort of like how I was raised; to be grateful, to not expect much, and to be nice to everyone. They, on the other hand, were raised to be murderers and to be survivalists. They volunteered for the Games; you don't see anyone from District Eight doing that.

It's unnerving to think that the victors from these Games will go up against them. Sure, that will be a while from now, but still… Jasper and Sterling are killers.

And they won't spare two lives from Eight just because they feel bad.

I don't know if I would, either. I know I hate thinking about the Games, but as the Reaping is about to begin, I can't but help think about it. If I were to be reaped, I don't think I could kill.

How would anyone just think that killing would be acceptable?

It's just awful. The Capitol is, too, for endorsing it. There isn't much District Eight can do about it, but I wish there was. I wish there was some way the Games didn't have to be real.

But, unfortunately, there's nothing I can do. So, I have to stop thinking like that.

I just have to sit back and let the Capitol do what it wants to do.

It's not like I could lead a whole rebellion by myself.

I should stop worrying about that, though. Nothing like that will happen in my life, no matter what I think or do. Now, I have to worry about being reaped. That's all that matters right now.

My life is on the line.

And I can't let the Capitol take that away.

* * *

**Medina Hator, 18 years old;  
Section Four Female, Cashmere67.**

* * *

_Golden girl._

As I bring back the golden strands of hair, I twirl it around the already made bun, making sure that it's compact. Making sure that there isn't a strand of hair that is astray, that the wind will be able to blow it out of place, or that it looks lopsided. Angling my head in the mirror, I check the back of my head, and I smile with satisfaction.

_Golden girl._

Raising the slim fit dress in front of me, I admire the blue fabric, the way that the stitching goes across the chest and down the sides. It's a low-neck dress, one that reveals just the right amount of skin, not wanting to give too much away. You never want to give _too_ much away, do you?

_Golden girl._

The word hums in my mind, and as I begin to slip the dress on, I can't help but look at myself. Today is the day where you should dress up, whether you can afford it or not. If they can't, well, I suppose they could ask me for an outfit to borrow. I'd be able to dig through my old clothes and give to the less fortunate. Letting out a laugh, I throw my hair back, secretly testing whether or not my hair is still intact.

"Looking lovely today, Medina."

In the mirror, I can see my father approaching, and I shimmy my shoulders, gesturing for him to zip me up in the back. He complies, his cold fingers touching my back, but I remain collected. I smile at him in the mirror, and he smiles back. As he turns around, though, I roll my eyes, not really wanting to deal with him today.

"Last year, huh?" He asks, tilting his head. "Last year to be in the Games."

"Mhm," I reply, trying not to say much. He never cared for anything I had to say, so at this point, I won't even waste the energy.

"Do you remember all I told you if you were to be, you know, reaped?" His question doesn't really catch me by surprise, since he's always babbling about the Games. It almost offends me that he's so interested in the Games.

"Of course, daddy," I say in a whiny voice, exaggerating each word. "Wouldn't want to let you down, would I?"

As a reply, all he does is nod and smile again. It's that easy with people like him; agree with him, nod your head, and make a noise to give him satisfaction. It's laughable, really, but he's my father, so I can't be _too_ judgmental.

Only if everyone else was like him. At the thought, I giggle to myself, knowing that everyone is _exactly _like him. Simple-minded, easily manipulated, pushovers. It's pitiful.

"Can I finish getting ready now?"

My father is already at the door, and he slides out of the room without saying any more. He does have the decency to close the door, though. I'll give him that.

As I begin to apply the make up on my face, I do it slowly and extra carefully, just in case I do go up to that stage. This year, things are different. What other way can I stand out, just like these Games? By pampering myself up, making myself look better than every other girl out there.

Bringing the red lipstick up to my mouth, I begin to glide it across my lips, the trail of red it's leaving behind making me feel that much better. Right now, everything is going my way. The only thing that could probably ruin this day is the weather.

But, I'm sure the weather wouldn't dare ruin my day. No one would want to ruin my mood.

Now it's time for the final component – the shoes. They're blue too, but the straps are red, as are the heels. I slip them on easily, lifting up my leg and bending my knee just to make sure that these are the ones. And, as I thought, they are.

They are the perfect ones.

The perfect ones for a perfect girl.

Once I give myself one last check over, I nod to myself in the mirror, wanting to now give myself the pep talk. Not just any pep talk, but the pep talk for the Games. My parents always taught me that the only way I can make myself feel better is with my own advice and that no one else can help me. So, here I am, about to help myself feel better about today. I'm not crazy for talking to myself – I'm just better off.

"Medina Hator," I say, staring into the mirror. "Eighteen years old."

Putting my hands on my hips, I angle my elbows at the right angle, looking at myself differently now. Sure, you can look good at one angle, but once you turn or look another way, it all changes. It's that easy.

"Outfit, check. Make up, check. Hair, check. Personality," I say, winking at myself. "Check."

"Stop talking to yourself," I hear a voice, and as I glance over in the mirror, I see that it's Rumira. "It's weird and it makes me uncomfortable."

"What makes me uncomfortable is the color of your shirt," I retort, and frankly, it's ugly. I just won't be that mean.

Rumira goes into my closet, beginning to shuffle around in it for any clothes that she'll change into. She spends a while in there, keeping quiet except for the occasional noises from her. I let her be, going back to looking in the mirror. I don't mind it that she's here, honestly. It just shows that I'm a nice person – that I'd let someone else use my wardrobe. It's not like I'd wear half of that, it's completely out of style.

And you always have to keep up with the latest style.

If not, you're already at a disadvantage.

And people like me can't afford to be at a disadvantage, can we?

* * *

**Russel Arvoy, 17 years old;  
Section Four Male, Cashmere67.**

* * *

"Medina Hator!"

At the sound of her name, I look up, trying to find her in the crowd. I've heard her name before – she's one of those attention-seeking girls. She tears apart the stereotypes for District Eight people.

Medina struts down the aisle, making her way right to the stage. She waves, winks, and definitely plays up the crowd. It's clever, I guess, but she looks like a fool. She's flaunting herself to the crowd, just to play up her personality. Just to make the people like her more than they already do.

I can't blame her.

She has confidence and can walk with stride. Who could blame her?

Medina stands on the stage, right next to the Nicholas boy. She begins to interact with him, but Nicholas completely ignores her, and I feel bad for Medina. She's only trying to speak to him, what harm could she do? It's not like Medina wants to kill him already.

The escort has a slip in her hand, and as she opens it, I begin to get fidgety. This whole time, I tried to avoid the thought of being reaped, but now that she's at my section, I can't think of anything else. This is it; this is where I get reaped or not.

What are the chances, anyway?

There's a bunch of boys here… I can't be the one to get reaped.

"Russel Arvoy!"

Almost immediately, I feel my heart drop and my legs shake. It only takes a moment for me to recollect myself, but I can feel the sweat forming on my forehead and my hand shaking uncontrollably. I keep them tight to my side, my head looking downward, and I can keep my pace steady. I try not to show how I really feel right now, so I bite down on my lip, continuing to look down at the ground.

_Calm down, Russel. Calm down._

Now, I can't help but shake even more. I make my way up the stage, not wanting to look behind me for even a second. They're all looking at me. They're all thinking exactly what I am.

I'm going to die…

I'm going to die in the Games.

There's a small chance I'll even make it past the Bloodbath, and here I am, looking like a complete fool. If my reaction now is any sign of what the Games will be like, well… I don't want to think that far.

I stand next to Medina, who I can feel is staring at me. She doesn't look away, but I don't look at her. She just wants to talk, I know, but I can't let her talk to me. Not now. I'm not ready.

"I'm Medina," she says, but I still look at the ground.

I ignore the escort's voice, not caring about the next girl or boy who is reaped. I'm going to die in the Hunger Games and I know it. There's nothing I can do, is there?

Allies?

Sponsor gifts?

What else is there?

There's no hope for people like me. It's known that District Eight usually dies in the Bloodbath, and I never really understood why. But, now I see it. Because tributes from Eight are scared; they don't know any better. We're not trained like the ones from One, Two, or Four. We work in factories and we do everything for ourselves.

We have to work for our life.

And that's what I'll have to do in the Games.

I'll have to fight for myself, even if the chances are slim.

I can't give up just yet.

* * *

**Medina Hator, 18 years old;  
Section Four Female, Cashmere67.**

* * *

The two tributes that were just chosen – well, only one of them, since the boy volunteered – position themselves on the stage. I eye them up and down, picking up on every movement and gesture they make. The girl is all fidgety – Phoebe, was her name. The boy, Nicholas, isn't like Phoebe, but I can't pin down anything about him.

Surely, he knows what he's doing. He volunteered.

It's a waste of a life, but to each their own. My father always loved the Hunger Games, but personally, I never cared for them. Watching them once in a while was interesting, but I would never try to make a life out of it. That's for the Careers, not us common folk from District Eight. I could probably handle the Games if I were to be reaped, but everyone else… they're not prepared.

"Our next female tribute is," the escort says, dipping her hand into the bowl. She picks up a slip, opens it, and reads the name out loud.

And what I hear isn't what I want to hear.

"Medina Hator!"

It only takes a few seconds to recollect myself, and as I strut into the center of the aisle, I know that everyone's looking at me. Not just from District Eight, but from all over Panem. I put on the brightest smile I can manage and I raise my hand in the air, waving it.

_Step aside, the Golden Girl is coming through. _

I step up the stairs, glancing at the crowd over my shoulder. I flash a wink and widen my smile, knowing that this is what matters. The way I come across and act is what will give them a first impression. It's all about first impressions; if you mess up, there's no rebound. You have to be careful.

As I take my place next to Nicholas, I lean forward, looking at the rest of the line of tributes. There's Gabriel – the handsome one, who frankly, I could take on – then a girl with an 'M' name, then Watte – also who I'll keep an eye on – then Cambrie, and then Phoebe and Nicholas. Nicholas doesn't seem to be paying attention, and as I reach my hand out to the side, he doesn't flinch.

"I'm Medina," I begin, but I'm cut off by the escort calling the boy's name.

"Russel Arvoy!"

Instantly looking into the crowd, I scan the all of the boys, wanting to see what this Russel is like. If you see someone in the first seconds of them being called, that's when you'll see their true emotions. How they really feel, not the façade they put on to seem so pathetic.

Once I find Russel in the aisle, I smirk. Clearly, he doesn't know how to act in public; the sweat on his forehead and the shocked expression is giving it all away. No façade for him, apparently. He seems to be scared – but, really, what is there to be scared of?

It's _only _the Hunger Games.

Russel makes his way onto the stage, stands next me, and only stares at the ground. I look at him, wanting to get some form of expression out of him. Nicholas was too boring, but him, he might be different.

The escort continues, but I block her out, keeping my attention on Russel. He's shaking lightly, his hands clamped tight to his side. I shuffle a little closer to him, where our arms are nearly touching.

"I'm Medina."

I wait for him to whisper to me back, but after a few seconds, I can tell that he isn't interested. It upsets me a little, since everyone always wants to talk to me. They always do. No one ever gives me the cold shoulder; I'm always the one who does that.

Why won't he talk to me?

If it's because of the Games, he just has to get over it. There isn't much he can do about it anymore, so shaking and sweating over it won't help him. I almost feel bad for him, but I really shouldn't. We're all going into the Hunger Games for ourselves.

To just come out alive.

How hard could that be?

I've survived this long, so I'm sure I can survive a few weeks more.

I'm a survivor and I won't let a few children get in my way.

* * *

**Russel Arvoy, 17 years old;  
Section Four Male, Cashmere67.**

* * *

I just want this to be over.

I just want to go to the Capitol already.

I want to see my family and friends, sure, but every minute I'm here, I feel worse. I feel more panicky, antsier. They are just prolonging the Games… making us suffer. Just by knowing that you're reaped is torture enough.

Melton is the first one to come through the door, followed by my parents. I embrace my hand with his, and we hug, and as he lets go, I can see a look in his eye. He's just as scared as I am, even though I don't want him to be. I don't want my family to worry about me.

I'll do what I have to.

It shouldn't be their concern.

"Russel," he says softly, backing up a step. "Are you okay?"

I shrug, not wanting to be too emotional. I can at least try and be somewhat okay, even though I won't be. No matter how much I convince myself I'll survive in the Games, nothing is definite. There's no way to predict the future.

My parents come towards me, and for a moment, I worry an argument will break out. My family doesn't have the best relationships with each other, but that's what I don't need right now. I could use some good family time before they have to go; there's no saying whether or not this will be the last time I'll see them.

"You'll be okay," my mother says, interlocking her fingers with mine. "You'll be okay, Russel."

"Don't be so patronizing," my brother comments, and before he can say anything, I stop him. I shoot him a glance, making him be quiet, since I don't want to hear it right now.

"I'll be okay, just like she said. We all will be okay," I say, trying to lessen the tension in the room. None of us have ever gotten along that well, but now would be the time to mend those relationships. I look at them altogether, their faces seeming expressionless. I don't know what I expect them to feel.

I don't want them to be sad for me. I don't want them to pity me. I don't want them to feel much for me, really. If they cry or frown, I'll just feel worse. Maybe their smiles would help me feel better about the situation.

Once there's a knock on the door, though, my head begins to hurt. They all flinch a little, the forceful knocking seeming hostile. They all walk towards the door, giving me their final good-byes through glances and gestures. I wave at them, a frown creeping on my face when I don't want it to.

"Good-bye, guys," I say quietly, knowing they didn't hear me. "I'll come back."

Even I can't convince myself that.

My next two visitors are Merino and Marcella. I'm glad they come in together, even if the two of them aren't too close. Maybe from me leaving to the Capitol they'll become closer friends. Since I won't be there, they'll need someone else to talk to.

That's the bright side to the situation; they'll get closer, yet for me, we'll drift apart.

"Russel!" Marcella exclaims, throwing her arms around me. "I'm so sorry!"

"It's not your fault," I reply, letting go of her grasp. "Don't apologize."

"I know… I just, I just feel bad," she says back, frowning a little. "I just don't want anything to happen to you."

"Nothing will happen to him," Merino adds, brightening up the mood a little. He's always one to make me feel a little more optimistic about any situation. "He'll come home, for sure. There's two victors this time, so."

"I just have to make sure I'm one of them," I say, bringing the mood back down. "And I can't promise anything."

"That's not the Russel I'm used to," Merino snaps. "Don't act like that. You're a strong individual, one who is determined and knows people. You can work with people, and you can even work alone. You're strong enough, Russel."

"Yeah, but, I don't know what the others are like."

"Who cares about them? You're in there for you. Sure, get some allies, but at the end of the day, you're there to survive, not to protect the life of someone else."

And he has a point.

I'm there to survive for me.

I'm not there to help anyone anymore.

I'm going there for me.

And I'm winning for _me_.

* * *

**Medina Hator, 18 years old;  
Section Four Female, Cashmere67.**

* * *

My parents are my first visitors.

They just stand there, their posture looking as great as ever. They don't say a word to me, only looking down on me as if I've done something wrong. As if I failed as a child because what they wanted didn't happen.

How is this my fault?

They're just putting a damper on my mood. It's not like I had any control over me being Reaped; if I volunteered, that'd be a different story. But, I'm not that stupid. Volunteers never win.

"Medina," my father says, his voice serious. "How does it feel?"

"It feels great!" I exclaim, the artificiality in my own voice making me nauseous. "I wanted to spice up my life a little, anyway. So, here I am."

"Don't be stupid," my father interjects, his voice raised a little. "Recklessness and foolishness is what gets someone killed. You don't want to be killed, do you?"

"Don't be so harsh on her," my mother adds, stepping forward a little. "Just remember everything we taught you; It'll come in handy."

I laugh.

She thinks it'll come in handy. To sit up straight, to walk with my nose in the air, and to act accordingly with people's social classes. It was always about appearance with him – how will that keep me alive now? No one's going to care if I'm the 'golden girl' of District Eight.

"I'm sure it will."

"Don't be rude," my father berates, and as I look away, I can tell that they've had enough of me. "You've always been ungrateful."

"No, no," I say, sarcasm in my voice. "Thank you, father. That's what I meant. I'm sure everything you have taught me will be of some use in the Games. I mean, if I ever have to balance a book on my pretty little head, I'll be able to."

There's a knock on the door, and from the expression on my father's face, I can tell that he's ready to leave. He seems flustered, and as I look at my mother, she doesn't look any more comfortable. I wave my hand, moving my fingers individually. I smile at them, tilting my head to the side. The door already shuts closed, but I still call after them, not satisfied with how this turned out.

"Keep an eye out for me on the television," I call after them, making sure my voice doesn't shake at all. "You wouldn't want your advice to go waste. I'll make sure to have the best posture there!"

The door opens, and in the doorway stands Rumira and Mica. Although I'm glad to see them, I really just want to be left alone right now. As they approach me, I stay seated, not wanting to hug either.

"Still talking to yourself, huh?" Rumira asks, her voice not as peppy as it usually is.

"That shirt looks great on you," I joke, knowing that it's my shirt. She always had good taste if she had a selection to pick from. "You can keep it."

"And if you don't return, can I keep it all?"

I don't let my mood falter. "Of course, and better yet, you can even sleep in my room whenever you want."

Rumira laughs and Mica steps next to her, a grin on his face. I'll admit, I will miss the two of them, simply because they're better than everyone else in the District. Those kids that were reaped alongside me mean nothing; but them… they're different.

I didn't have to manipulate them to befriend me. They liked me for who I was, which is something I don't see every day. People always seem to find something wrong with me.

It's absurd, really. People are so picky.

But, that doesn't stop me. One thing that I did take into account from my father's teaching was that people are fickle. That they are malleable, oblivious, and soft. And, from all of my experience, I can assure that he is right.

People are easy. Too easy, if I think about it.

They're just puppets.

Puppets that are made to be toyed with.

And if I have to win by doing that, so be it.

I'm coming home whether these puppets like it or not.

* * *

**Thanks to Lupus Overkill for Russel and LokiThisIsMadness for Medina!**

* * *

_**Which tribute from Section Four stood out the most to you, why?**_

* * *

**Few things to say this time. First up, thanks to those few who have remained faithfully reviewing and staying with this. I don't blame anyone for falling behind, we're quick to update. Just know we do appreciate reviews, and from the other twenty or so authors who have a tribute in this, it would be good to hear from you too :P**

**Second, on my profile is a link to a 24 author collaboration that I would be really grateful to see some of you readers going over and applying. Hopefully you're all aware what this means, if not I can answer any questions if you're considering applying but need to clarify something!**

**And yep, that should be all. Big thanks to Teddy for taking on this whole section. We're getting through these quickly for you guys, in return let us know what you thought!**


	7. Section Five Reapings

**Section Five Reapings.**

* * *

**Regis Cavanagh, 16 years old;  
Section Five Male, Chaos In Her Wake.**

* * *

"Regis, what are you even doing?" Snapping out of the book I'm reading, I find my mother standing in the doorway of my bedroom and watching me with a baffled expression.

I hold up the text. "Just reading. I found this musty old history book in my closet and I was bored, so…"

She gives me one of her dazzling smiles. "I can see that you're reading, dear, I was referring to your manner of doing so."

I glance around my book to try and figure out what she's talking about. "Oh, you mean the way I'm sitting." I'm lying on my back with my legs propped up on the wall, holding the book over my face. "I don't know, I just… got here. Somehow."

"Well, just get downstairs 'somehow' in a few minutes, we want to eat together as a family before you leave for the Reaping!"

I give her a thumbs-up before she turns around and closes the door behind her, trying to finish the page I'm on so I can finish getting ready. Something about the proximity of certain districts to the Capitol increasing their trade opportunities, which is just common sense anyway, blah blah blah.

Setting the book down, I realize that I'm way more behind than I thought I was. My shirt's only halfway buttoned- I must have forgotten about it entirely when I was digging through the closet. I hope it's not wrinkled from lying down on the ground. Shrugging, I finish the last few buttons, slip on my socks and best shoes, and head downstairs, leaving the book open on my bedroom floor.

As I step off the staircase, Mother shoves a plate of waffles into my hands, nearly scorching my fingers in the process. "Butter's on the table!" she reminds me, disappearing back into her study.

I go to sit down beside my father, who nods cordially in greeting. "Good morning, Regis."

"Hi, Dad."

"Butter's right here."

"Yeah, Mother told me."

Speaking of my mother, she strides back into the dining room at that precise moment, clutching a Capitol fashion magazine and grinning like a child. I don't think I've ever seen her this… out of control.

"Look!" she practically squeals, shoving the magazine under Dad's nose and jabbing a finger at the open page, "Our factory's designs have made it into the top fashion collections! This will increase our revenue by thousands!"

Dad grins and before I can catch a glimpse of the designs myself, he's leapt up from his seat and dances around the table with Mother, both of them laughing and smiling.

I take a bite of my waffle.

They return to their seats, Mother's face flushed pink with exertion and pride. "It's good to have a bit of positivity today," she declares. Agreed, but I think it's much easier for them to be happy. Their chances of going into the Hunger Games haven't increased by, what, twenty-four hundred percent? I'm glad I haven't had to take tesserae. It's good to have a bit of positivity.

At least I know my parents would miss me if something happened. Most people… most people wouldn't.

I shake off whatever unhealthy emotions I'm feeling and focus on my breakfast. My parents are deep into a conversation about their clothing factory and I try to listen to that as well, but today it's hard to multitask.

I finish my food, but I'm only just opening my mouth to ask if I may be excused when Mother turns her attention on me.

"Regis, you're going to be late if you don't get out the door soon."

Guess that answers my question. "See you afterward, then?"

"Of course. We love you, son!" Dad shoos me towards the door.

"Love you too, bye!"

* * *

**Malley Radke, 14 years old;  
Section Five Female, Cashmere67.**

* * *

"How does it look?

Looking over my shoulder, I wait for a response. It's silent, though, and as I look back down at the table with the interlocking patterns of cloth, I want to see if this looks good. I ask one more time, but behind me I can hear the rustling of bags and the shuffling of footsteps.

It must be time to go to work.

It always is just that.

"I'd change the purple and blue," Arken calls over, someone who finally appreciates what I do. At least he gives me his opinion whenever I ask for it. "The blue doesn't look good next to the green."

Smiling, I go back to work, just wanting to waste time before the reaping. After I switch the little pieces of cloth around, I take a step back, looking it over one last time. I nod, and once Arken puts his hand on my shoulder, I look up at him.

"There we go, Malley. That looks great."

"Thank you," I reply, not wanting to hold him up here any longer. I know he has friends to go see at a time like this. "You can go now, Arken. I'll see you later."

Arken leaves in a hurry, grabbing his jacket off the coatrack. The coatrack creeks a little, swaying to the side after he forcefully pulls it off. I leap up into the chair behind me, tapping the front of my shoe on the counter, waiting for Liera to come downstairs now.

My parents left and now Arken did, but Liera is still here. She'll talk to me.

As I wait for Liera, I look out the window, seeing a pack of kids going right past my house. Arken joins them, sliding right into the middle of the group. Arken always had a lot of friends, and even though I do have friends, they don't compare. His are all outgoing and loud, while mine are all quiet and passive. The only one of my friends that comes to mind is Allette, but that doesn't bother me.

I know she's my friend, and that's all that matters.

"Good morning, Malley," Liera says, placing a book on the counter. She flips it open, trying to find a specific page, and mumbles something to herself. "Why haven't you left already? The reaping starts soon."

I shrug, shuffling in my seat. "I don't know. I just wanted to wait for you."

"That's sweet of you," she says, but frowns a little. "But, I have to meet up with a few people… I'm really sorry, Malley, but maybe after we can do something. Does that sound okay?"

"Okay."

Leaning back in the chair, I feel abandoned for a moment, like they don't care. But, I understand. I'm family; they see me all the time. They rarely ever see their friends, so I shouldn't feel so hurt. I'll see them after the reaping, anyway.

We'll all see each other after the reaping one way or another.

Standing up from the chair, I go back to the patches of cloth on the table, figuring that I have some more time to waste. I mess them all up with my hands, mixing them up again. I go back to placing each one individually next to another, keeping mind what Arken said: That the blue doesn't look good next to green.

This time, I put the green patch next to the red patch with the flowers on it. These came from my mom's job, and they might be childish, but it's fun. It's fun just to play with these things from time to time, not really having anything else to do. I'd rather sit here and play with this, anyway.

Besides, I'm not sure I have anything else to do.

I'm not one to go out and engage in an activity.

Perhaps that's why Arken and Liera have all their friends? Because they don't sit home playing with patches of cloth. I shake my head, not really wanting to accept that. I do things that I want to do.

I am happy with my life.

I know that much.

* * *

**Regis Cavanagh, 16 years old;  
Section Five Male, Chaos In Her Wake.**

* * *

"Hey, look who it is, District Eight's rising fashionista himself!"

I don't have to glance over my shoulder to know that it's Ryon Harding who's jeering at me from his place in the check-in line.

"What, too well off to even acknowledge the truth?"

I squash down the tiny part of me that wants to turn around and say I can't help that my family is better off than his, or the fact that my clothes mirror the bright Capitol styles more than the ragged shades of gray and brown that I see all over Eight. It wouldn't be right to go off on him. Mother would probably kill me for breaking composure.

"Come on, Reggy, turn around and face me like a man. If you even are a man, I never see you trying to be one."

I hate when people call me Reggy.

Other voices join in, mere whispers compared with Ryon's tone of voice. "Come on,

I turn around slowly, with as much dignity as I can possibly muster against Ryon's incessant prodding, and offer him a small smile and a nod. The line moves forward ahead of me and I allow myself to be pulled along with the flow. I'm fine, Ryon's sneering is pointless. It's past and gone.

When I reach the front of the line, my finger is jabbed painfully by a Peacekeeper who almost as young and nervous as some of the kids here. He releases my hand and I stick my finger in my mouth to stop the trickle of blood after the first few drops.

"Don't forget this," the Peacekeeper calls after me, shoving a plastic card labeled '5' towards me. My section, yeah, I need that.

Holding the card in one hand, I move to the edge of the roped-off areas and look for Section Five. Swarms of kids cluster between me and my destination and I hardly see anyone I even recognize. A few kids from school here and there, but no one I'd want to talk to. Then again, when do I ever want to talk to them? An even better question: since when does anyone ever talk to me?

Squeezing past a group of newly-coined Section Four kids, I step into my own area and find a space in the corner. A group of half-panicked thirteen year olds stands nearby but no one else. Good. I can try to calm down.

It's a long wait for the Mayor to step up and begin the speech- so long that I'm almost glad when the ceremony begins. I have something other than the sinking feeling in the pit of my own stomach to focus on at last.

The very first girl called, I recognize. She's wandered through my neighborhood a few times, and she's young- younger than me by a year or so. A child of the streets. I've pitied her but never had the opportunity to talk, let alone the desire. A few names go by uneventfully, but then the boy from Section Three is a volunteer. A volunteer? Why? How? From Eight, is he crazy?

He introduces himself as Nicholas and I make a mental note to be wary of him. He's not worth trusting. He can't get out of this and that means he has to have some sort of motivation, a plan, unlike the rest of the poor saps going to the Games. That scares me.

I watch one Medina Hator and then Russel Arvoy called up for Section Four, but I lose focus again as a lump builds in my throat. Section Five. It's time for Section Five now.

One more name, it's all right Regis, calm down.

"Malley Radke!"

Another younger girl appears, looking downright scared onstage. I suppose I don't look as scared as she does, but I can relate to her emotions.

Livia's hand dips into the boy's reaping bowl, drawing out a slip.

Come on, Regis, you can do this, just breathe, breathe…

"Regis Cavanagh!"

I've forgotten how to breathe.

The crowd parts around me like I'm unclean, letting the Peacekeepers know exactly where I am. The world seems off somehow, detached. Distantly, I see the uniformed officers approach me and something kicks into autopilot. They won't take me. I shoot a glare at one of them and make my own move before they can lay hands on me. One foot in front of the other, always the obedient child, I make the long trek up to the stage, where Malley and Livia are waiting.

* * *

**Malley Radke, 14 years old;  
Section Five Female, Cashmere67.**

* * *

As the two reaped tributes from Section Four – a boy named Russel and a girl named Medina – take the stage, I grip onto the end of my shirt. I pull down on it tightly, and with every step the escort takes, I feel my chest tighten up.

I frantically look around for a face I know – whether it's Arken, Liera, or Allette – but I can't find anyone. I'm here alone again, like I always am. But, that doesn't stop me from looking, and the sound of the escort going towards the next bowl catches my attention.

What if I'm reaped?

I can't be, can I? They wouldn't reap me, right? They couldn't…

The escort dips her hand into the bowl in front of her, looking up at all of the kids. I look around at the girls in Section Five, then looking back at me. There are all of these girls; what are the chances of me being reaped? How could my name be picked out of all of these other ones?

"Our next female tribute is," she says, her voice trailing off. With the next slip in her hand, she begins to open it, the anxiety making me feel light-headed. "Malley Radke!"

My eyes widen, my name echoing in my head. This can't be… No, no! The tears are already streaming down my face, and as I try to bury my face in my hands, it doesn't help. My hand brushes against my cheek, the burning sensation making me feel so much worse. As I look back up, I begin to hyperventilate at the sight of everyone looking at me.

They're all looking at me.

The girl who was reaped.

As I make my way up to the stage, I know there's nothing I can do. I just have to stand here, waiting for this to be all over. It'll all be over soon, won't it? Just a few more names. Just a few more names, that's all.

I stand next to the boy, Russel, but I can't look at him. I can't look at anyone, so I stare down at the ground, my tears slipping right off my face and dropping onto the stage. I can't stop crying, no matter what I tell myself.

I was reaped… I was reaped.

"Regis Cavanagh!"

At the name of the boy, I shoot my head upwards, trying to look for where he is. The crowd parts to the side, letting the boy stand in the middle alone. He makes his way up to the stage, not looking anything like I did. He isn't crying or weeping like I am. He isn't hyperventilating or heating up like I was.

Isn't he scared?

Everyone should be scared.

Staring back down at the ground, I see Regis take his place next to me from the corner of my eye, but I can't bear to look at him either. I can't look at anyone; not even myself. I'll see enough of everyone in the Capitol, where we'll try to ally and meet new people.

But, will I be able to do that?

Will I even be able to make an ally? To help myself survive in the arena?

I don't know if I can even do that.

I hear the clicking of the escort's heels on the stage, but I ignore the rest of the name calling, not wanting to see anyone be reaped. I was reaped, and that's all that matters.

What if Arken was reaped? Or Liera? Or Allette?

What about them?

They would be scared, wouldn't they? They would have to be… they would be thinking the same things I am. That I might not make it back home.

I can die out there.

Does everyone not realize this?

They should all be scared.

They should all be scared…

* * *

**Regis Cavanagh, 16 years old;  
Section Five Male, Chaos In Her Wake.**

* * *

My hands, resting on the edge of the velvet-upholstered couch, are shaking like mad. The creak of the door shutting me in the room alone echoes in my mind, only amplifying my new fear and anxiety.

I'm alone.

Funny thing is, all twenty-four of us are alone now.

My parents are the first to rush into the room, but even as they sit close on either side of me I feel utterly disconnected. Mother wraps her arms around me in a tight hug, but the feel of skin on skin is eerie rather than comforting.

"Regis, this is unbelievable! Who would have thought, with you having so few slips in that bowl… my son, my son…" Dad's holding together better than Mother, but he's more angry than sorrowful in the first place. Nonetheless there are tears on his cheeks.

Mother's mascara is starting to run down her face, and she pulls out a tissue from her purse to dab at her eyes. "Regis, darling, we want you back more than anything. There are two victors, I know you can make it that far," she reasons, "You can come back. You are clever and observant. You're creative. Don't underestimate yourself and don't let the others underestimate you either."

Even with tears dripping from her eyes, she manages to keep her voice steady to the point of charisma. I feel wetness begin to well up in my own eyes as she finishes her little speech. "I don't want to leave, Mother. Please don't let me go." My voice is wavery and scared; I sound like a child.

She swoops forward in another embrace, nearly crushing my ribs although I revel in the hug. If it's to be the last I get, I will gladly take it.

"Son, if you do your best you can come home, we have faith in you," Dad kneels in order to be at my eye level, setting his hands on my shoulders in an act of love? Desperation? Determination? I can't tell.

"I'll try," is my uncertain reply. How can I know what skills the others will have? I know I like to learn, but what if that's all I have?

"Promise us," Mother pleads, clasping my hands between her own.

"Of course I promise," I blurt out automatically, guilt welling up inside as soon as the words come out. What sort of promise is that? Sure, I'll do my best not to die? How can I guarantee anything? I want to promise sincerely. I want to come home; I'm terrified.

The knock on the door brings my heart up into my throat for a few moments.

"We love you, Regis," Dad says, wrapping his arms around both Mother and me. Everything is peaceful and quiet for a few fleeting moments until the knocking becomes more insistent. Dad still doesn't let go.

Finally, the Peacekeeper flings open the door and motions to my parents that their time is up. Dad reluctantly loosens his embrace and Mother backs away from me as well. They both just look at me for a few minutes, too overwhelmed to say anything.

I'm choked up as well, and I swallow the lump in my throat as they exit the room.

"I love you too."

But it's too late. The door has already swung closed behind them.

Now there's only one way I'll get to tell them.

* * *

**Malley Radke, 14 years old;  
Section Five Female, Cashmere67.**

* * *

Bringing my knees up to my chest, I curl up into a ball, not wanting to move. I just want to sit here and to see my family right now. I don't want to wait any longer. Pushing down the urge to tear up again, I know that I've already shed too many tears at the reaping.

What else was I supposed to do, then?

The door opens suddenly, with four figures entering into the room. It's my mother, father, brother, and sister. My mom and dad stand in one area, but Arken and Liera come over and embrace me. I hug them back, not really sure what to do.

What would anyone do in a situation like this?

"Malley," Liera says into my ear, digging her hand into her pocket. "I want you to have this, okay? I want you to have it so you can remember me."

Looking down, she places a single glove in my hand, one of the ones that I've seen her using in the backyard before. There's extra fabric on the fingers, and once I look at it more, I see that it's the glove she toys around with fire with. I grip it tightly in my hand, not wanting to let it go.

I don't care if they don't let me have it.

It's mine.

My mom and dad come over now, and even though they never seemed to care a lot, they hug me too. They wrap their arms around me together, and maybe for once in their life, they see me for who I am. A scared and fragile girl, one who just doesn't play around with cloth all the time. I knew that they were working together, and for a moment, I feel bad for taking them out of work.

They need the money.

They don't need to be here.

There's some mindless chatter, and I can tell they're a little uncomfortable. Me? I'm scared. I'm worried. I'm terrified. What will become of me? Will I come home just as another dead tribute from District Eight?

There's no hope for me, is there?

Once the Peacekeeper comes to knock on the door, that's when I snap out of this. I basically throw myself back at them all, not wanting them to go. It's too soon… I'm not ready yet. I don't want to go to the Capitol without them.

I need them. I always have.

As they leave one by one, they give me one last look, one that I will keep with me forever. This might be the last time I see their faces in person, and that's what upsets me the most. There's no guarantee I'll come back alive… there just isn't.

My next visitor is Allette. She scampers over to me, both of us not knowing what to do. She hugs me faintly, but I slip out of her grasp, our eyes being level now. I look right at her, the look on her face making me want to cry again. She's just as scared as I am.

Allette was my only friend.

And I was her only friend.

"Where will you go now?" She asks, her voice quivering. I can't do this.

"The Capitol," I say in a hushed voice. "Then the Hunger Games."

"And then what?"

And I don't know. I don't know what. I don't think I ever will know what.

Keeping quiet, I let the silence answer all of her questions, the mood in this room where I say all my good-byes eating me alive. I can't do this… I never could. I never expected it to be like this.

I never expected me to go into the Hunger Games.

But, it's happening. It really is.

I just don't know how much longer of this I can take.

What will happen to me in the Capitol?

What will happen to me in the Games?

_Will I make it home?_

* * *

**Thanks to jessicallons-y for Regis and District11-Olive for Malley!**

* * *

_**Which tribute from Section Five stood out the most to you and why?**_

* * *

**Through the fault of... no one, this chapter is out a week after the previous one. Usual update speed for most stories, a little bit longer for this one so apologies for that.**

**Anyway applications are still running for the 24 author collab so check my profile for the link to that if you haven't. Also later today some guidelines for another SYOT should go up on my profile so that's another thing to look out for :)  
**

**Thanks for reading, hope you enjoyed this chapter!**


	8. Section Six Reapings

**Section Six Reapings.**

* * *

**Harvey Kendal, 16 years old;  
Section Six Male, jakey121.**

* * *

The first crate lands nicely, without a chip on the surface or a single scuff on the concrete floor. I turn to pick up the next one, bringing my hands forwards and grab onto the sides with ease. My muscles strain under the weight, burning painfully, but I swerve my waist in time to the heave upwards and it goes down almost as well.

Behind the small, beaten-down truck used to deliver fabrics to the factories, I hear laughter traveling through the brisk air. I stifle a groan and trudge back along to the truck, the contents still full despite the crates lining up outside the metal backdoor.

I don't dislike their lack of commitment to the work-life. In fact, amongst the dedicated workers with their furrowed faces and frowns, it makes for a certain diversity. It's their nature, the nature to look at those who work hard to support their families and scorn them as some kind of second rate citizen. If they did it peacefully, moving on with their lives on their own accord, then I could move past it.

But no one knows my doubts, because no one knows me. I keep a closed mouth, my thoughts and feelings bottled deep because it gets in the way of any amount of progress. Maybe people see me as second rate because they perceive me to be a stupid, no-brained, hunk of meat destined to deliver crates for the rest of his life.

If that's the way they feel, what can I do to stop that? Work harder, make my way up the ladder, and then... then I can live my life content. Happy. Peaceful.

"Harvey, those crates aren't going to deliver themselves. Faster!" I perk up at the sound of my father, that smile plastered on his face, but the serious, worker-dad mode flicked on. He rounds the truck and grabs another crate in his firm, calloused hands. I nod in his direction and pick up the next one, swinging around and chucking it down gently in unison to his movements.

We work together well, a team united in our family's distress. Only he does it with a bit more noise than anyone else.

I move back for another one and feel his hand, roughly fitting against my shoulder. I halt and turn to face him, expressionless as his face creases with worry. "I hope you're not..."

I stare blankly. What, what does he mean? I hate it when people don't finish their sentences, never get to the point. That's why I keep my words quick, sharp and to the point. Maybe that's why people think I'm an idiot, the fact I don't ramble on with false intellect.

"I hope you're not thinking of volunteering."

The fact he's so worried about that makes my lip twitch. Only a slight movement but he, and I, register it. His hand curls into a fist and playfully, my father punches me in the shoulder and moves back to the open truck.

"Whatever, it's not like you'd do any good in the Arena is it?" He winks at me, and the same corner twitches, curling ever so slightly. I enjoy these moments, and they're made a thousand times better because it's my Father I'm spending them with. He doesn't care if I prefer to continue working whilst he dawdles alongside me, talking, winking, punching me in that friendly way he always has done.

It's okay because he understands me, understands my lack of anything really. I get the job done, move on, go home, and relax in my room. It's a cycle I don't even want to break from because it's my cycle.

I'm happy being me, so I'm happy he accepts it.

"I'd beat you." I mumble, nudging him gently. A rare sign, but something I feel is necessary. Something I want to show.

I see his face break in that wide grin, and he knocks me with the crate, dropping it down into the bundle.

"Didn't know you had a sense of humor." He chuckles. "But I'm funnier."

* * *

**Merritt Lisle, 18 years old;  
Section Six Female, ImmyRose.**

* * *

"I hate to be offensive, but this really isn't a great plan!" For some reason, Issa is still speaking in a bubbly tone as she observes the passerby, or rather, their bag that looks far too flashy to be flaunted around this part of District Eight, "We don't even know the area or - "

"So? What's the point in doing anything if it's a guarantee that you'll succeed?" I retort. Why anybody wants to be boring and plan out everything is beyond me; how do you expect to be surprised if you've already anticipated every outcome? Living life like that must get repetitive after a while.

"It ain't a guarantee; people like us get hurt all the time doing this!" She protests. Issa has always been under the delusion that there's a 'we' when it comes to survival. She's the type of girl that'll risk herself in order to help others out, although the fact that anyone would do that when they should be tending to themselves is something I can't fathom.

"Get hurt? Nice little euphemism there." My voice is dry, "Were you expecting this to be easy? Stop wasting our time and get on with it already."

She pouts, but is still quick to walk out and approach our next victim. Issa's sociable personality is useful for one thing, I'll say that much for her, because she's managed to capture the person's attention remarkably quickly. In fact, they're so caught up in the fantastical tale that Issa's spinning that they fail to notice me sneak up behind and expertly cut the strings of the small bag that they've left unguarded.

Really, it's their own fault. If you want to keep what you have, you can't be sloppy about leaving it around for anyone to take. You don't have to live on the streets to learn that lesson; it's common sense.

They're quick to notice that the purse is no longer weighing down their shoulder, I'll give them that much, as they whirl around. By the time they've done that, I've already started hightailing it down the nearest alleyway that I can find, not paying attention to where I'm headed. As long as I'm in the clear, then everything's fine.

A flash of red draws my attention to the purse I have. It really is pretty; red silk with a couple of beads sewn into it. It's too bad that I won't have this for long; I have to hand it over to Mama Ciana for 'safekeeping'. There's not a single possession in the world that I can say belongs to me, including anything that could help me survive independently without this group.

Well, that's all going to change today, and not in the way that our esteemed leader, Mama Ciana, is intending for me. It's not like her influence can touch me once I'm a tribute.

Essentially, I'll be untouchable, and once I return as victor, she'll have no say over what I can and can't do.

It takes me bumping into someone to realise that I'm not alone, but I'm quick to back away in case they sound the alarm. However, it doesn't take me long to recognise who it is.

I can't say the same for my ally as he swings a fist at me, but I've already anticipated this and I easily catch it in my palm.

Javi's scowl lets up a little bit as he sees who it is, "Oh, sorry."

I just shrug this off, "No problem. I'd take staying alive over being polite."

He spits at this, "Oh, I'm ever so graceful – "

"Grateful?"

"Yeah, that. I'm so grateful." Javi loses steam as he crosses his arms petulantly. The bitterness in his voice doesn't quite match up with the twelve year old that's speaking, which isn't helped by the fact that his growth has been stunted.

I tilt my head up, looking down at him from my nose, "One is forgiven."

He doesn't glare at me; his version of being in a good mood, "As if I don't have enough to deal with finding stuff for Mama already."

"Oh yeah, can't forget to fill your quota, can we?" I roll my eyes, although this doesn't change the fact that he doesn't have anything to speak of.

Neither of us appreciates doing this, having to roam the streets to get stuff for members that contribute nothing to this group of ours. Why coddle the weak when you should be teaching them to defend themselves? This group has a far superior chance of surviving in the case of a tragedy if everyone can handle themselves. Age is hardly a reason for slacking off either; Javi's twelve and he's almost as competent as I am.

And yet here we both are, forced to defer to this group and serve those that are quite frankly not worth the effort of pandering to. How exactly does anyone expect to survive if they're let off lightly when they make a mistake? That's not how real life works and it doesn't exactly make fear strike your heart when you're facing up to the authorities.

Really, I should just let Javi face up to the consequences of coming back empty-handed. In fact, that's what I'd normally do if it means that he learns not to make the same mistake twice, but it's hardly worthwhile for him to get chewed out if I could help it, "Here, have this." I toss the purse at him, "Say it's yours; I'll catch up with you later. I can find something else for after the Reaping, it's fine."

He scowls, wondering what I'm up to, no doubt. Javi knows full well that I don't suffer fools gladly. However, his desire to avoid punishment wins out and he shoves it in his pockets, "You're not coming back beforehand then?"

"No." After today, there'll be nothing forcing me to return in order to further my life, and admittedly, I don't want to face the wrath of Mama Ciana for coming back empty-handed. She may say that she cares for us, but her one goal has always been about money. I'd actually respect her for it if she didn't continue with this charade that we mean anything to her in the long term.

Javi's gone when I look back up and I smile. He, at least, doesn't waste his time concerning himself about others. If everyone's first priority was being self-sufficient, you wouldn't have to stress yourself out looking after those that needed to learn how to survive properly.

"Excuse me, do you know where Mummy is?"

Inwardly, I groan. Ari, one of the youngest recruits for this group, had only joined several days ago, and he's already demonstrating that he needs a good old reality check,

"You wanna know where Mummy is?" I sneer, "Well, that's too bad. Your mummy's a whore who doesn't want you and never will. Get used to it."

His lip starts trembling and I roll my eyes, "I-I'm going to tell Mama w-what you did."

"Yeah, and?" My voice is harsh, "Who d'you think she's going to believe? You, or someone who's actually earned their place here?"

"I-I-I deserve to be with you guys just as, as much as y-you."

"No, you really don't." I say, "Until you've proven otherwise, you ain't worth shit. Now stop crying, get up and get a move on."

"M-make me." The moment he crosses his arms over in his attempt at defiance, I've run out of patience. Grabbing him by the scruff of his neck, I start hauling him back in the general direction of the derelict building we're currently living in, only tightening my grip when he complains. He'll learn to suck it up soon. He'd better do, anyway. It's what I've learned to do; accept the fact that life isn't easy unless you actually work for it.

And if I have to work for what I have, if I have to suffer for it, then there's no reason why he shouldn't.

* * *

**Harvey Kendal, 16 years old;  
Section Six Male, jakey121.**

* * *

The sharp pinch in my finger sends a jolt through my body. I bite my tongue as the Peacekeeper retracts his hand and thrusts a plastic sheet into my fingers.

"Move along," he says in a calm, almost tired voice. I nod politely and take large, quick strides pass the processing section and into the rest of the Square. Kids mill around, knocking into each other in their hurry to get to their sections. I suck in a sharp breath, bringing back my stomach as little kids brush past. Twelve at most, playing and slapping one another without really much of a care.

It's interesting how their age gives them the notion that this isn't such a scary place. To be so innocent and carefree must be simple, without much worry. Only now, working my way through Section Six, bumping and mumbling apologies to those I knock over, I can see the fear that such a scenario brings.

Twenty-four sections for twenty-four tributes. No longer just a partnership, an unspoken unity as District partners to stand by one another in the Games. This is a rivalry amongst friends and family. Parents at the back might lose a child to a family friend. My stomach rumbles from hunger, but also the slight beginning of fear that everyone else shows so plainly on their faces.

Even now, when I try to contain myself, it doesn't work. My mind rushes around memories locked away, good and bad ones that could get swept off the moment I'm reaped and then... killed.

Maybe I never really thought about death to such a degree, in my monotonous but welcomed life, it wasn't much of a worry. Now though, standing here, I can't shake off the longing to be back at work, or home. At least my parents go about their lives without meddling into mine too much.

If I'm a tribute, it's me everywhere. Broadcast to the whole world. I don't like being known by many people.

The ceremony begins, the escort almost swatting away the Mayor to take center stage. Her exuberance is unreal, her clothes not as extraordinary as previous years but nothing in comparison to the drab wear both I, and everyone else, has on for today.

The names begin and hollow-faced, or sprightly, or sometimes even angry teenagers start walking to the stage. I recognise Malena Chavelier, a girl I tossed a coin to once because for all her troubles, she still worked to try and get out of them. Then there's Cambrie Allaire, followed sometime after by Medina Hator. Two girls like those I heard laughing, two girls who haven't worked a day in their lives.

They feed on attention, Medina swaying her hair as she tries to gain the looks of Russel only to pout when he disregards her entirely. I never understand them, it's confusing, something my brain can't handle. I turn my focus on the little girl walking up from Section Five, blocking out the worry in my gut.

The boy, composed yet frightful follows afterwards. And then it's us. I hear the distant thudding of my heart, my blood rushing through my veins trying to keep up with the fear that threatens to dull my brain and knock me flat on my back. I've never fainted before, but I'm pretty sure this is what it feels like.

A name is called, but it's quickly suffocated by shouts of our second volunteer. I try to pay it no heed, but the general buzz that accompanies such an astonishment travels through and I crane my neck to get a better look at whoever it is.

She announces her name as Merritt Lisle and takes her place next to Regis. I stare at her, unsure of her motives. Why would she throw away her life for something so.. so barbaric? Kids killing kids. That isn't work, it's not productive and it's all for the sake of entertainment. It just doesn't make se-

"Harvey Kendal!"

The name clicks, reaching my ears and all feet pivot to face me. Not many recognise me, but as those move to clear a path it's as if every camera burns my face and eyes scorch with their remorseful stares. It's uncomfortable. My hands twist and twiddle nervously in front, but all I do is the same as I've always done and keep a clear, almost bored face on my journey to the stage.

It's better than shouting, fighting, cursing or crying.

It doesn't brand me as anyone, leaves it to the imagination. I don't want people guessing about me, but it's better than showing each and every face around Panem who I am. If I am anyone really, I'm just Harvey. I'm normal. I want to stay that way.

The Hunger Games will change everything.

* * *

**Merritt Lisle, 18 years old;  
Section Six Female, ImmyRose.**

* * *

Snatching the card from the Peacekeeper, I scowl when I see what number I've been assigned: six. As if I want to sit around and watch eleven or so others cry on their way to the stage before I get the chance to volunteer, not to mention that I have to wait to make myself known.

I sigh as the mayor and the escort drag out the Reaping to torturous lengths with the formal proceedings. The only satisfaction I can glean from this is the fact that everyone else is just as bored out of their minds as I am. Why should I suffer alone, after all? Where's the fun in that?

Some of the other potential tributes look to be on the verge of tears, especially the pampered children who get three meals a day. Seeing them actually makes me think better of my status of being born to two nobodies in the slums; I'll be able to appreciate the rewards and the fame a lot more when I get back. There's no point having something if you aren't going to cherish it.

I know I'd appreciate the freedom that accompanied being a victor, especially since it's a one-off opportunity for me. If I try to come back to Mama Ciana's group after this Reaping, I'd be turned out and cast into the adult world, where I'd join everyone else in the drudgery of factory work.

If she has her way, I'll be starting out life as a regular citizen today, with no more pickpocketing or living rough. What does it matter to her if my life prior to that existence, my goals, ambitions and experiences would become irrelevant if I allowed that to happen? I'll just be another worker.

It's a good thing that I'm not stupid enough to believe that the life of an ordinary citizen here is worth having. That, and I'm intrepid enough to see today as a golden opportunity. Instead of a poorly-paid, unappreciated job where I starve to death in some factory somewhere, I'll be taking the first step towards achieving things far beyond anything possible in this district.

If the Hunger Games are the only way I can break free of this district, I'll happily take the chance.

I turn back to the stage just as the escort tears the first slip open. It's so quiet that the sound of the slip being opened is audible even from where I am.

"Malena Chavelier!"

A small girl from the first sector is made known to the crowd once a Peacekeeper gives her some friendly encouragement by shoving her. Her hair is disheveled and her clothes are even more threadbare than mine. If she even has a home to speak of, it can't be much better than mine.

Despite the fact that this is practically a blessing in disguise for someone like her, Malena is struggling to hold back sobs as she mounts the stage. For the first tribute this district had, she's not making the best impression.

If I had been in Sector One, I could have left a much better impression on the watching Capitol. I could have made the beginning of the Reapings a lot livelier than this girl is doing.

Her district partner manages to compensate for this, smiling and waving as he takes this in his stride, but the next girl tries making a run for it. If she had even thought for a moment that she had a chance in hell at getting away with that, then she's definitely not cut out for the Games.

It's not like you can expect much from this district; that's just another advantage of volunteering this year. My chances of success would be so much higher without having to take into account the Careers or the various skills that the other districts would have. This is District Eight; half of these tributes probably don't know how to do anything outside of sewing.

This impression is shattered the moment that someone shouts out that they volunteer and I crane my neck, trying to see who had decided to volunteer before I had. I remain nonplussed as a boy from one of the earlier sectors shuffles to the stage, smiling amiably at everyone.

That should be me, I should have taken the glory of being the first volunteer of these Games, and now it's going to this kid. Well, there's no point in worrying about the past now, no matter how inconvenient this is. Who cares about what previously happened when you could be putting your time and energy into making sure you don't mess up again in the future?

Once I volunteer, I'll be sure to never revisit my old life. The poverty, the oppressive grasp of Mama Ciana's group, the shame of lowering myself to help the weak, all of that can be washed away in just a few minutes.

I manage to snap out of my reverie in time to see the Sector Five boy walk to the stage, looking like he's come to terms with the Games. Good; he should be accepting the fact that he can die in there. I know I am, although standing here, I can't say the thought of death is motivating me to win at this moment in time.

The moment I see the escort walk over to the bowl for my section, I've shoved the nearest kid out of the way in an attempt at clearing the path, "I volunteer as tribute!"

Everyone around me gets the message pretty quickly and move away, allowing me to walk to the stage with my head raised, bright red hair trailing out behind me as I walk up the steps leading to where the other tributes are. I don't care to note their reactions; I need to ensure that Panem understands that they're looking at one of their two victors right here.

Briefly, I ponder whether having two victors meant that the rewards were halved for both of us. The possibility of having to share with a stranger makes my fists clench, but I refrain from acting. This is a lot better than sharing the meagre scraps I could steal with an entire gang.

"Do you mind?" I say the moment I feel the microphone being thrust into my face. Instinctively, I shove the microphone away from me, "There is this thing called personal privacy, you know."

Although Livia moves it a safe distance away from me, she leans forward slightly in anticipation, apparently still just as curious about me as that other volunteer.

"Merritt Lisle." I keep my introduction nice and short. There's no time to drag out the formalities now; I'll have plenty of time for that in the Capitol.

Right now, I just want to leave this district as soon as possible, get away from how dismal the place is, from Mama Ciana and the control she has over my life.

Well, _had_ would be more appropriate now, I realise with a smug smile. She doesn't have any dominance over me anymore. No more would I have to be subservient to the little kids and pamper them, nor would I have to go out of my way to help anyone else.

I'm on top now and I won't ever be relying on anyone again. My identity won't just be defined by my connections to Mama Ciana's group.

I'm finally my own person.

* * *

**Harvey Kendal, 16 years old;  
Section Six Male, jakey121.**

* * *

"I never liked it much anyway." She curls my fingers round the bracelet, pulling me in and kissing the center of my forehead. I embrace her, tucking my arms tight into her back and letting time just stand still for a moment.

If I pretend, I can imagine the hands freezing on the clock and it just being me, my mum and my dad locked away in this room for eternity. It beats what's waiting for me outside the door, lurking at the end of a train ride and then... within the Arena. All of it, it's suffocating. Too much to take in, more than I've ever had to focus on in my simple life. So instead I focus on the perfume wafting from my mum's dress, filling my senses with the deepest of scents. I smile and unwrap my arms, putting the bracelet round my wrist and trying not to focus on the fact her bottom lip trembles with a sob waiting to fight its way free.

"It's one way to get rid of it, without having to actually toss it in the trash." I let out a deep, broken down laugh and almost let my eyes fill with tears. Almost. If I do, I'm scared what it might mean. I've never been emotional, never really understood how to. Mother's like me, tucking away her insecurities and getting on with her life. It's father who deals with putting his feelings externally, he manages, barely.

Sometimes his eyes swim with tears, maybe it's too much for him to be the man of the house. And now without me, with less work, less income...

"I can't go mum, I can't leave you two."

Her own chuckle back comes out hoarse, shattering and tears begin to trail her cheeks. I always felt my stomach grind uncomfortably if she, my dad, or anyone else cried. But now it feels natural, it makes me less insecure with the feeling of tears hanging on my own eyelashes. I let one fall, and then another. A wave begins and when my father steps up, placing one hand on my shoulder, I let them all pour out.

Sounds I'm not used to making scratch against my throat, burning away in my chest. We embrace as a family, tucking ourselves in, trying to hide away from reality.

I feel a delicate hand stroking the top of my head, twirling away through my hair and smoothing it down. She whispers that it will be okay, even if her voice betrays the strength behind the false words of encouragement. It won't be okay, even I'm not stupid enough to believe that.

I've never had to fight before, physically or verbally. Such a situation never presented itself, and I was never determined to go seeking one out like some school bullies have done previously. Now it's not just as simple as a fist fight or a fiery exchange of words – both things I could never, and probably ever, achieve to a passable degree. It's about knives and swords and all those weapons I've seen filling my television when they flashed around the Cornucopia for the recaps, or when they were shown live.

I have to be the one who holds a sword now, I can't look at it from an outside perspective and pretend that it's not so scary. It is scary, it's terrifying.

All I've wanted is a peaceful life, serene... boring. Dull is good, dull is perfect. Now I'm heading from normalcy into the most negative of extremes and I can't do a single thing. I can fight to win, but after that I'll still be chucked back into the Arena in the distant future to fight against all the other Victors.

It's something I can't break out of. An impossible situation. I've never done well with impossible, impossible was always too tricky to work out a solution, even if impossible means there cannot be such a thing.

I deal with practical things, simple tasks, the most basic of needs. Food. Shelter. Family. Work.

Life in Eight is easy for me. So much easier than anything else.

And they've snatched it away, one simple piece of paper has taken my life by force and plunged me into a wild array of colours and blood and pain.

"I can't go..." No matter how many times I say it, I know it can never come true. But it still soothes my mind at rest, stops the tears and the tremble in my lip. It gives me peace, and that's all I've ever wanted.

* * *

**Merritt Lisle, 18 years old;  
Section Six Female, ImmyRose.**

* * *

"Merritt, I don't think this is one of your better choices." Issa cajoles, twirling a strand of blonde hair around her finger as she scrunches her face up into a confused expression.

Mama Ciana looks less than impressed, "Especially when you were planning on getting a job after this Reaping, maybe settle down. It seems like such a waste to throw that away."

I give Mama Ciana a steady look, knowing that now is definitely not the time to reveal any semblance of weakness to her, "You really think that? You're telling me that there's nothing you'd want with the money I'll get?"

"It's not that I'm worried about, although those are benefits," she looks away and I know that I've basically convinced her there. If there's one thing that she claims to love more than everyone in her 'care', it's material wealth; something which I'm likely to have far more of than she ever will, "You're awfully young to be risking your life like this, barely a year younger than your father, I recall."

She adds this part pointedly, having already told me the story of my father's recklessness enough times for me to get the message; don't get careless, "Rest assured, I've learned from his mistakes." I add this in a sardonic tone, remembering all the times that she had compared my actions to my father's.

Mama Ciana raises an eyebrow at this, but doesn't press the issue any further, "If you're so certain then, Merritt, I do wish you the best in these Games. I don't doubt that you'll be home soon."

I nod, happy that she hasn't felt it necessary to act cheery for the occasion. Issa, however, feels it vital to make up for Mama Ciana's sombre attitude, "It's not like you have any Careers to fight with or anything! You'll come back in no time!"

"Oh, of course. Thanks so much." I say, "Now I feel inspired to overcome these Games and continue life. I don't know how I would have managed before without your words of encouragement."

Issa's quick to interject, lest Mama Ciana taken offence at this, "Well, don't forget that we'll be rooting for you, yeah?"

Giving me one last smile, she's left before I can tell her just how _incredibly_ helpful being cheered on would be in the Games. Meanwhile, Mama Ciana just smiles indulgently at the space Issa had once occupied, "We'll all chip in a bit, make sure you have a helping hand."

Of course you will be, I think as she follows Issa. When such a prime opportunity arises to amass a fortune, you can afford to gamble a little more to make sure it doesn't pass you by.

"Hey, watch it." I hear the familiar voice of Javi mutter as he brushes past Mama Ciana and into the room, "I want to see her too."

I give it a couple of seconds after the door closes before I speak, "You, don't go believing a single word that I told the others. Or telling them."

He frowns, "What'd you tell them?"

"That I'd use the winnings to benefit the group." My lip curls up with disdain, "Like they deserve to reap the rewards of my own work."

"So you're never ever coming back then? To the group, I mean." Irritation flashes across his face, "Nice knowing you then. You made being in this group bearable, I'll say that much."

Something akin to affection sparks up in me as I look at Javi. He's not letting this setback - to him, anyway - get to him, nor is he unnecessarily risking his hide on my behalf. That's how society should be, in my eyes.

Nevertheless, it is nice to know that there's at least one person that'll be affected by my absence.

"You won't have to worry about that for long." I assure him firmly, "The moment I get back, I'm outta there. And you can come too. Have a nice big house all to ourselves and we won't have to worry about them."

For a moment, I imagine the power I'll have over them, how easy it'll be to bring them to the authorities' attention. The thought is vindictive in its temptation, but I quickly veto against it. What would I gain out of crushing them into dust? Admittedly, they have been the people that had made me the way I am - strong, independent, decisive - and while I'm not interested in repaying the favour, there's nothing that would make me want to expend the effort of ruining them.

"But Merritt?" He cocks his head to the side, frowning, "You do realise you'll have to go in again, even if you win now."

Admittedly, I hadn't thought that far ahead when I had thought up of this plan, but it's not like I can turn back time to volunteer last year and I'll be too old come next year, "It doesn't matter. Have you seen those District One victors? Those Careers aren't going to be half as threatening by the time the final Games come around." I grin as another thought comes to me, "Besides, I'll have more time than almost any of the other victors to prepare for then."

Having District Eight be among the first to host their Games is the only perk I can think of to actually living here, and if I was more sentimental towards the cluster of factories and flats that make up District Eight, that might have actually bothered me.

"You could die in there." Javi reiterates and for a moment, I see his lips twist into a slight frown.

I shrug this off. Javi had probably meant that as a reminder not to let my guard down, "I'll figure it out when I get there."

"It'll be too late by the time that happens!" He snaps, "If you don't want to die, don't act like it!"

"I'm not. You really think I survived eighteen years in this hell-hole just to die off now?" I snipe, unconcerned with spoon-feeding Javi reassurances about how I'll do my very best to get home because that's a given with me. And if by some chance I don't, then having Javi lose his cool over this is the least he can do compared to what might happen to me.

"Neither does anyone else!" Javi crosses his arms, "Just because they didn't volunteer doesn't mean they're going to roll over and die for you." He scowls, more to himself than to me, "Look, just don't underestimate them, okay?"

"Oh, I will, just for you." I call out as the door slams shut.

No matter, I can reconcile with him once I get back, but I'll cross that bridge when I get to it.

* * *

**Thanks to Dracones for Harvey and Nrrrd-Grrrl-Meg for Merritt!**

* * *

_**Which tribute from Section Six stood out the most to you and why?**_

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**Yup, fast update. Enjoy! Halfway through these reapings :D**


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